Price 

No. 

Private  Library 

—  OF- 

BERT  CROINKHITE. 


John  Halifax,  Gentleman  « 

**********A  Novel 

By  Miss  Mulock   *  «  *  «  «  * 


Chicago  and  New  York  *** 
Rand,  McNally  &  Company 


Stack 
Annex 


JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Get  out  o'  Mr.  Fletcher's  road,  ye  idle,  lounging,  little 

a }> 

"Vagabond,"  I  think  the  woman  (Sally  Watkins,  once  my 
nurse)  was  going  to  say,  but  she  changed  her  mind. 

My  father  and  I  both  glanced  round,  surprised  at  her  un- 
usual reticence  of  epithets;  but  when  the  lad  addressed 
turned,  fixed  his  eyes  on  each  of  us  for  a  moment,  and  made 
way  for  us,  we  ceased  to  wonder.  Ragged,  muddy,  and  miser  • 
able  as  he  was,  the  poor  boy  looked  anything  but  a  "vaga- 
bond." 

"Thee  need  not  go  into  the  wet,  my  lad.  Keep  close  to  tlia 
wall,  and  there  will  be  shelter  enough  both  for  us  and  thee/' 
said  my  father,  as  he  pulled  my  little  hand-carriage  into  tba 
alley,  under  cover,  from  the  pelting  rain.  The  lad,  with  <i 
grateful  look,  put  out  a  hand  likewise,  and  pushed  me  further 
in.  A  strong  hand  it  was — roughened  and  browned  wiih 
labor — though  he  was  scarcely  as  old  as  I.  What  would  I  not 
have  given  to  have  been  so  stalwart  and  so  tall! 

Sally  called  from  her  house-door,  "Wouldn't  Master  Phhi- 
eas  come  in  and  sit  by  the  fire  a  bit?"  But  it  was  always  a 
trouble  to  me  to  move  or  walk;  and  I  liked  staying  at  the 
mouth  of  the  alley,  watching  the  autumnal  shower  come 
sweeping  down  the  street;  besides,  I  wanted  to  look  again  at 
the  stranger  lad. 

He  had  scarcely  stirred,  but  remained  leaning  against  the 
wall — either  through  weariness,  or  in  order  to  be  out  of  our 
way.  He  took  little  or  no  notice  of  us,  but  kept  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  pavement — for  we  actually  boasted  pavement  in  the 
High  Street  of  our  town  of  Norton  Bury — watching  the  edd)  - 


2047252 


«  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ing  rain-drops,  which,  each  as  it  fell,  threw  up  a  little  mist  of 
spray.  It  was  a  serious,  haggard  face  for  a  boy  of  only  four- 
teen or  so.  Let  me  call  it  up  before  me — 1  can  easily,  even 
after  more  than  fifty  years. 

Brown  eyes,  deep-sunken,  with  strongly-marked  brows,  a 
nose  like  most  other  Saxon  noses,  nothing  particular;  lips 
well  shaped,  lying  one  upon  the  other, firm  and  close; a  square, 
sharply  outlined,  resolute  chin,  of  that  type  which  gives  char- 
acter and  determination  to  the  whole  physiognomy,  and 
without  which,  in  the  fairest  features,  as  in  the  best  disposi- 
tions, one  is  always  conscious  of  a  certain  want. 

As  I  have  stated,  in  person  the  lad  was  tall,  and  strongly 
bpilt;andl,poor  puny  wretch!  so  reverenced  physical  strength. 
Everything  in  him  seemed  to  indicate  that  which  I  had  not; 
his  muscular  limbs,  his  square,  broad  shoulders,  his  healthy 
cheek,  though  it  was  sharp  and  thin — even  to  his  crisp  curls 
of  bright  thick  hair. 

Thus  he  stood,  principal  figure  in  a  picture  which  is  even 
yet  as  clear  to  me  as  yesterday — the  narrow,  dirty  alley  lead- 
ing out  of  the  High  Street,  yet  showing  a  glimmer  of  green 
field  at  the  further  end;  the  open  house-doors  on  either  side, 
through  which  came  the  drowsy  burr  of  many  a  stocking- 
loom,  the  prattle  of  children  paddling  in  the  gutter,  and  sail- 
ing thereon  a  fleet  of  potato  parings.  In  front,  the  High 
Street,  with  the  mayor's  house  opposite,  porticoed  and  grand; 
and  beyond,  just  where  the  rain-clouds  were  breaking,  rose  up 
out  of  a  nest  of  trees  the  square  tower  of  our  ancient  abbey — 
Norton  Bury's  boast  and  pride.  On  it,  from  a  break  in  the ' 
clouds,  came  a  sudden  stream  of  light.  The  stranger-lad 
lifted  up  his  head  to  look  at  it. 

"The  rain  will  be  over  soon,"  I  said,  but  doubted  if  he 
heard  me.  What  could  he  be  thinking  of  so  intently? — a 
poor  working  lad,  whom  few  would  have  given  credit  for 
thinking  at  all. 

I  do  not  suppose  my  father  cast  a  single  glance  or  thought 
on  the  boy  whom  from  a  sense  of  common  justice  he  had  made 
tiike  shelter  beside  us.  In  truth,  worthy  man,  he  had  no  lack 
of  matter  to  occupy  his  mind,  being  sole  architect  of  alongup- 
hill  but  now  thriving  trade.  I  saw,  by  the  hardening  of  his 
features,  and  the  restless  way  in  which  he  poked  his  stick  into 
the  little  waterpools,  that  he  was  longing  to  be  in  his  tan- 
jswd  close  by. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  7 

He  pulled  out  his  great  silver  watch — the  dread  of  our 
house,  for  it  was  a  watch  which  seemed  to  have  imbibed  some- 
thing of  its  master's  character;  remorseless  as  justice  or  fate, 
it  never  erred  a  moment. 

"Twenty-three  minutes  lost  by  this  shower.  Phineas,  my 
sen,  how  am  I  to  get  thee  safe  home?  unless  thee  wilt  go  with 
me  to  the  tan-yard " 

I  shook  my  head.  It  was  very  hard  for  Abel  Fletcher  to 
have  for  his  only  child  such  a  sickly  creature  as  I,  now,  at 
sixteen,  as  helpless  and  useless  to  him  as  a  baby. 

"Well,  well,  I  must  find  some  one  to  go  home  with  thee." 
For  though  my  father  had  got  me  a  sort  of  carriage,  in  which, 
with  a  little  external  aid,  I  could  propel  myself,  so  as  to  be 
his  companion  occasionally  in  his  walks  between  our  house, 
the  tan-yard,  and  the  Friends'  meeting-house — still,  he  never 
trusted  me  anywhere  alone.  "Here,  Sally — Sally  Watkins! 
do  any  o'  thy  lads  want  to  earn  an  honest  penny?" 

Sally  was  out  of  ear-shot;  but  I  noticed  that  as  the  lad  near 
U8  heard  my  father's  words,  the  color  rushed  over  his  face, 
aud  he  started  forward  involuntarily.  I  had  not  before  per- 
ceived how  wasted  and  hungry-looking  he  was. 

"Father!"  I  whispered.  But  here  the  boy  had  mustered  up 
hie  courage  and  voice. 

"Sir,  I  want  work;  may  I  earn  a  penny?" 

He  spoke  in  tolerably  good  English — different  from  our 

('.oarse,  broad  G shire  drawl;  and  taking  off  his  tattered 

old  cap,  looked  right  up  into  my  father's  face.  The  old  man 
scanned  him  closely. 

"What  is  thy  name,  lad?" 

"John  Halifax." 

"Where  dost  thee  come  from?*' 

"Cornwall." 

"Hast  thee  any  parents  living?" 

"No." 

I  wished  my  father  would  not  question  thus;  but  possibly  he 
had  his  own  motives,  which  were  rarely  harsh,  though  his  ac- 
tions often  appeared  so. 

"How  old  might  thee  be,  John  Halifax?" 

"Fourteen,  sir." 

"Thee  art  used  to  work?" 

"Yes." 

"What  sort  of  work?" 


S  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Anything  that  I  can  get  to  do." 

I  listened  nervously  to  this  catechism,  which  went  on  be- 
hind my  back. 

"Well,"  said  my  father,  after  a  pause,  "thee  shall  take  my 
son  home,  and  I'll  give  thee  a  groat.  Let  me  see;  art  thee  a 
lad  to  be  trusted?"  And  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  re- 
garding him  meanwhile  with  eyes  that  were  the  terror  of  all 
the  rogues  in  Norton  Bury,  Abel  Fletcher  jingled  temptingly 
the  silver  money  in  the  pockets  of  his  long-flapped  brown 
waistcoat.  "I  say,  art  thee  a  lad  to  be  trusted?" 

John  Halifax  neither  answered  nor  declined  his  eyes.  He 
seemed  to  feel  that  this  was  a  critical  moment,  and  to  have 
gathered  all  his  mental  forces  into  a  serried  square,  to  meet 
the  attack.  He  met  it,  and  conquered  in  silence. 

"Lad,  shall  I  give  thee  the  groat  now?" 

"Not  till  I've  earned  it,  sir." 

So,  drawing  his  hand  back,  my  father  slipped  the  money 
into  mine,  and  left  us. 

I  followed  him  with  my  eyes  as  he  went  sturdily  plashing 
down  the  street;  his  broad,  comfortable  back,  which  owned  a 
coat  of  true  Quaker  cut,  but  spotless,  warm  and  fine;  h/s 
ribbed  hose  and  leather  gaiters,  and  the  wide-brimmed  hat, 
set  over  a  fringe  of  gray  hairs,  that  crowned  the  whole  with 
respectable  dignity.  He  looked  precisely  what  he  was — an 
honest,  honorable,  prosperous  tradesman.  I  watched  him 
down  the  street — my  good  father,  whom  I  respected  perhaps 
even  more  than  I  loved  him.  The  Cornish  lad  watched  him 
likewise. 

It  still  rained  slightly,  so  we  remained  under  cover.  John 
Halifax  leaned  in  his  old  place,  and  did  not  attempt  to  talk. 

Once  only,  when  the  draught  through  the  alley  made  me 
shiver,  he  pulled  my  cloak  round  me  carefully. 

"You  are  not  very  strong,  I'm  afraid?" 

"No." 

Then  he  stood  idly  looking  up  at  the  opposite — the  mayor's 
house — with  its  steps  and  portico,  and  its  fourteen  windows, 
one  of  which  was  open,  and  a  cluster  of  little  heads  visible 
there. 

The  mayor's  children — I  knew  them  all  by  sight,  though 
nothing  more;  for  their  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  mine  a  tan- 
ner; they  belonged  to  Abbey  folk  and  orthodoxy,  I  to  the  So- 
ciety of  Friends — the  mayor's  rosy  children  seemed  greatly 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  9 

amused  by  watching  us  shivering  shelterers  from  the  rain. 
Doubtess  our  position  made  their  own  appear  all  the  pleas- 
anter.  For  myself,  it  mattered  little;  but  for  this  poor,  deso- 
late, homeless,  wayfaring  lad  to  stand  in  sight  of  their  merry 
nursery  window,  and  hear  the  clatter  of  voices,  and  of  not  un- 
welcome dinner  sounds,  I  wondered  how  he  felt  it. 

-Just  at  this  moment  another  head  came  to  the  window,  a 
somewhat  older  child;  I  had  met  her  with  the  rest;  she  was 
only  a  visitor.  She  looked  at  us,  then  disappeared.  Soon 
after,  we  saw  the  front  door  half  opened,  and  an  evident  strug- 
gle taking  place  behind  it;  we  even  heard  loud  words  across 
the  narrow  street. 

"I  will— I  say  I  will." 

"You  sha'n't,  Miss  Ursula." 

"But  I  will!" 

And  there  stood  the  little  girl,  with  a  loaf  in  one  hand,  and 
a  carving-knife  in  the  other.  She  succeeded  in  cutting  off  a 
large  slice,  and  holding  it  out. 

"Take  it,  poor  boy!  you  look  so  hungry.  Do  take  it/'  But 
the  servant  forced  her  in,  and  the  door  was  shut  upon  a  shaijp 
cry. 

It  made  John  Halifax  start  and  look  up  at  the  nursery  win* 
dow,  which  was  likewise  closed.,  We  heard  nothing  more 
After  a  minute  he  crossed  the  street,  and  picked  up  the  slice 
of  bread.  Now,  in  those  days  bread  was  precious,  exceed . 
ingly.  The  poor  folk  rarely  got  it;  they  lived  on  rye  or  meal. 
John  Halifax  had  probably  not  tasted  wheaten  bread  like  thLj 
for  months;  it  appeared  not,  he  eyed  it  so  ravenously;  theia 
glancing  toward  the  shut  door,  his  mind  seemed  to  change. 
He  was  a  long  time  before  he  ate  a  morsel;  when  he  did  so,  it 
was  quietly  and  slowly,  looking  very  thoughtful  all  the  while. 

As  soon  as  the  rain  ceased,  we  took  our  way  home  down  the 
High  Street  toward  the  Abbey  church — he  guiding  my  car- 
riage along  in  silence.  I  wished  he  would  talk  and  let  me 
hear  again  his  pleasant  Cornish  accent. 

"How  strong  you  are!"  said  I,  sighing,  when,  with  a  sudden 
pull,  he  had  saved  me  from  being  overturned  by  a  horseman 
riding  past — young  Mr.  Brithwood,  of  the  Mythe  House,  who 
never  cared  where  he  galloped  or  whom  he  hurt — "So  tall  and 
so  strong." 

"Am  I?    Well,  I  shall  want  my  strength." 

"How?" 


10  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"To  earn  my  living." 

He  drew  up  his  broad  shoulders,  and  planted  on  the  pave- 
ment a  firmer  foot,  as  if  he  knew  he  had  the  world  before  him 
• — would  meet  it  single-handed,  and  without  fear. 

"What  have  you  worked  at  lately?" 

"Anything  I  could  get,  for  I  have  never  learned  a  trade." 

"Would  you  like  to  learn  one?" 

He  hesitated  a  minute,  as  if  weighing  his  speech.  "Once  I 
thought  I  should  like  to  be  what  my  father  was." 

"What  was  he?" 

"A  scholar  and  a  gentleman." 

This  was  news  though  it  did  not  much  surprise  me.  My 
father,  tanner  as  he  was,  and  pertinaciously  jealous  of  the  dig- 
nity of  trade,  yet  held  strongly  the  common-sense  doctrine  of 
the  advantages  of  good  descent;  at  least,  in  degree.  For  since 
it  is  a  law  of  nature,  admitting  only  rare  exceptions,  that  the 
qualities  of  the  ancestors  should  be  transmitted  to  the  race — 
the  fact  seems  patent  enough  that,  even  allowing  equal  advan- 
tages, a  gentleman's  son  has  more  chances  of  growing  up  a 
gentleman  than  the  son  of  a  working  man.  And  though  he 
himself,  and  his  father  before  him,  had  both  been  working- 
men,  still,  I  think,  Abel  Fletcher  never  forgot  that  we  origin- 
ally came  of  a  good  stock,  and  that  it  pleased  him  to  call  me, 
his  only  son,  after  one  of  our  forefathers,  not  unknown — 
Phineas  Fletcher,  who  wrote  the  "Purple  Island." 

Thus  it  seemed  to  me,  and  I  doubted  not  it  would  to  my 
father,  much  more  reasonable  and  natural  that  a  boy  like 
John  Halifax — in  whom  from  every  word  he  said  I  detected  a 
mind  and  breeding  above  his  outward  condition — should 
come  of  gentle  rather  than  of  boorish  blood. 

"Then,  perhaps,"  I  said,  resuming  the  conversation,  "you 
would  not  like  to  follow  a  tra;Ie?" 

"Yes,  I  should.  What  would  it  matter  to  me?  My  father 
was  a  gentleman." 

"And  your  mother?" 

And  he  turned  suddenly  round;  his  cheeks  hot,  his  lips 
quivering.  "She  is  dead.  I  do  not  like  to  hear  strangers 
speak  about  my  mother." 

I  asked  his  pardon.  It  was  plain  he  had  loved  and  mourned 
her;  and  that  circumstances  had  smothered  down  his  quick 
boyish  feelings  into  a  man's  tenacity  of  betraying  where  lie 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  '    11 

had  loved  and  mourned.  I,  only  a  few  minutes  after,  said 
something  about  wishing  we  were  not  "strangers." 

"Do  you?"  The  lad's  half -amazed,  half -grateful  smile 
went  right  to  my  heart. 

"Have  you  been  up  and  down  the  country  much?" 

"A  great  deal,  these  last  three  years;  doing  a  hand's  turn,  as 
best  I  could,  in  hop-picking,  apple-gathering,  harvesting;  only 
this  summer  I  had  typhus  fever,  and  could  not  work." 

"What  did  you  do  then?" 

"I  lay  in  a  barn  till  I  got  well.  I  am  quite  well  now;  you 
need  not  be  afraid." 

"No,  indeed;  I  never  thought  of  that." 

We  soon  became  quite  sociable  together.  He  guided  me 
carefully  out  of  the  town  into  the  Abbey  walk,  flecked  with 
sunshine  through  overhanging  trees.  Once  he  stopped  to  pick 
up  for  me  the  large  brown  fan  of  a  horse-chestnut  leaf. 

"It's  pretty,  isn't  it — only  it  shows  that  autumn  is  come." 

"And  how  shall  you  live  in  the  winter,  when  there  is  no 
eut-of-door  work  to  be  had?" 

"I  don't  know." 

The  lad's  countenance  fell,  and  that  hungry,  weary  look, 
which  had  vanished  while  we  talked,  returned  more  painfully 
than  ever.  I  reproached  myself  for  having,  under  the  in- 
fluence of  his  merry  talk,  temporarily  forgotten  it. 

"Ah !"  I  cried  eagerly,  when  we  left  the  shade  of  the  Abbey 
trees,  and  crossed  the  street;  "here  we  are,  at  home!" 

"Are  you?"  The  homeless  lad  just  glanced  at  it — the  flight 
of  spotless  stone  steps,  guarded  by  ponderous  railings,  which 
led  to  my  father's  respectable  and  handsome  door.  "Good- 
day,  then,  which  means  good-by." 

I  started.  The  word  pained  me.  On  my  sad,  lonely  life — 
brief  indeed,  though  ill  health  seemed  to  have  doubled  and 
trebled  my  sixteen  years  into  a  mournful  maturity — this  lad's 
face  had  come  like  a  flash  of  sunshine;  a  reflection  of  the 
merry  boyhood,  the  youth  and  strength  that  never  were,  never 
could  be  mine.  To  let  it  go  from  me  was  like  going  back  into 
the  dark. 

"Not  good-by  just  yet!"  said  I,  trying  painfully  to  disen- 
gage myself  from  my  little  carriage,  and  mount  the  steps. 
John  Halifax  came  to  my  aid. 

"Suppose  you  let  me  carry  you.  I  could — and — and — it 
would  be  great  fun,  you  know." 


12  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

He  tried  to  turn  it  into  a  jest,  so  as  not  to  hurt  me;  but  the 
tremble  in  his  voice  was  as  tender  as  any  woman's — tenderer 
than  any  woman's  I  ever  was  used  to  hear.  I  put  my  arris 
around  his  neck;  he  lifted  me  safely  and  carefully,  and  set  me 
at  my  own  door.  Then,  with  another  good-by,  he  again 
turned  to  go. 

My  heart  cried  after  him  with  an  irrepressible  cry.  What 
I  said  I  do  not  remember,  but  it  caused  him  to  return. 

"Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you,  sir?" 

"Don't  call  me  'sir;'  I  am  only  a  boy  like  yourself.  I  want 
you;  don't  go  yet.  Ah!  here  comes  my  father!"  * 

John  Halifax  stood  aside  and  touched  his  cap  with  a  re- 
spectful deference  as  the  old  man  passed. 

"So  here  thee  be — hast  thou  taken  care  of  my  son?  Did 
he  give  thee  thy  groat,  my  lad?" 

We  had  neither  of  us  once  thought  of  the  money. 

When  I  acknowledged  this,  my  father  laughed,  called  John 
an  honest  lad,  and  began  searching  in  his  pocket  for  some 
larger  coin.  I  ventured  to  draw  his  ear  down,  and  whispur 
something — but  I  got  no  answer;  meanwhile,  John  Halifax, 
for  the  third  time,  was  going  away. 

"Stop,  lad — I  forgot  thy  name — here  is  thy  groat,  and  a 
shilling  added,  for  being  kind  to  my  son." 

"Thank  you,  but  I  don't  want  payment  for  kindness." 

He  kept  the  groat,  and  put  back  the  shilling  into  my  la- 
ther's hand. 

"Eh!"  said  the  old  man,  much  astonished,  "thee'rt  an  odd 
lad;  but  I  can't  stay  talking  with  thee.  Come  in  to  dinnex, 
Phineas — I  say,"  turning  back  to  John  Halifax  with  a  sudden 
thought,  "art  thee  hungry?" 

"Very  hungry."  Nature  gave  way  at  last,  and  great  tears 
came  into  the  poor  lad's  eyes.  "Nearly  starving." 

"Bless  me!  then  get  in  and  have  thy  dinner.  But  first 

"  and  my  inexorable  father  held  him  by  the  shoulder; 

"thee  art  a  decent  lad,  come  of  decent  parents?" 

"Yes,"  almost  indignantly. 

"Thee  works  for  thy  living?" 

"I  do  whenever  I  can  get  it." 

"Thee  hast  never  been  in  jail?" 

"No!"  thundered  out  the  lad,  with  a  furious  look.  "I  don't 
want  your  dinnert  sir;  I  would  have  stayed,  because  your  eoa 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  11 

anked  me,  and  he  was  civil  to  me,  and  I  liked  him.  Now  I 
think  I  had  better  go.  Good-day,  sir." 

There  is  a  verse  in  a  very  old  Book — even  in  its  human 
histories  the  most  pathetic  of  all  books — which  runs  thus: 

"And  it  came  to  pass,  when  he  had  made  an  end  of  speak- 
ing unto  Saul,  that  the  soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit  unto  the 
soul  of  David;  and  Jonathan  loved  him  as  his  own  soul." 

And  this  day,  I,  a  poorer  and  more  helpless  Jonathan,  had 
found  my  David. 

I  caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  would  not  let  him  go. 

"There,  get  in,  lads,  make  no  more  ado/'  said  Abel  Fletcher, 
sharply,  as  he  disappeared. 

So,  still  holding  my  David  fast,  I  brought  him  into  my  fa- 
ther's house. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Dinner  was  over;  my  father  and  I  took  ours  in  the  large 
parlor,  where  the  stiff,  high-backed  chairs  eyed  one  another  in 
opposite  rows  across  the  wide  oaken  floor,  shiny  and  hard  as 
marble,  and  slippery  as  glass.  Except  the  table,  the  side- 
board, and  the  cuckoo  clock,  there  was  no  other  furniture. 

I  dared  not  bring  the  poor  wandering  lad  into  this,  my 
father's  especial  domain;  but  as  soon  as  he  was  away  in  the 
tan-yard,  I  sent  for  John. 

Jael  brought  him  in;  the  onty  womankind  we  ever  had 
about  us,  and  who,  save  to  me  when  I  happened  to  be  very  ill, 
certainly  gave  no  indication  of  her  sex  in  its  softness  and 
tenderness.  There  had  evidently  been  wrath  in  the  kitchen. 

"Phineas,  the  lad  ha'  got  his  dinner,  and  you  mustn't  keep 
'un  long.  I  bean't  going  to  let  you  knock  yourself  up  with 
looking  after  a  beggar-boy." 

A  beggar-boy!  the  idea  seemed  so  ludicrous  that  I  could  not 
help  smiling  at  it  as  I  regarded  him.  He  had  washed  his  face 
and  combed  out  his  fair  curls;  though  his  clothes  were  thread- 
bare, all  but  ragged,  they  were  not  unclean;  and  there  was  a 
rosy,  healthy  freshness  in  his  tanned  skin,  which  showed  he 
loved  and  delighted  in  what  poor  folks  generally  abominate — 
water.  And,  now  the  sickness  of  hunger  had  gone  from  his 
face,  the  lad,  if  not  actually  what  our  scriptural  Saxon 
terms  "well-favored,"  was  certainly  "well-liking."  A  beg- 


14  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

gar-boy,  indeed!  I  hoped  he  had  not  heard  Jael's  remark. 
But  he  had. 

"Madam,"  said  lie,  with  a  bow  of  perfect  good-humor,  and 
even  some  sly  drollery,  "you  mistake;  I  never  begged  in 
my  life.  I  am  a  person  of  independent  property,  which  con- 
sists of  my  head  and  my  two  hands,  out  of  which  I  hope  to 
realize  a  large  capital  some  day." 

I  laughed;  Jael  retired,  abundantly  mystified,  and  rather 
cross.  John  Halifax  came  to  my  easy-chair,  and  in  an  altered 
tone  asked  me  how  I  felt,  and  if  he  could  do  anything  for  me 
before  he  went  away. 

"You'll  not  go  away;  not  till  my  father  comes  home,  fit 
least?"  for  I  had  been  revolving  many  plans,  which  had  one 
sole  aim  and  object,  to  keep  near  me  this  lad,  whose  coin- 
panionship  and  help  seemed  to  me,  brotherless,  sisterless  and 
friendless  as  I  was,  the  very  thing  that  would  give  me  an  ia- 
terest  in  life,  or  at  least,  make  it  drag  on  less  wearily.  To  say 
that  what  I  projected  was  done  out  of  charity  or  pity,  would 
not  be  true;  it  was  simple  selfishness,  if  that  be  selfish- 
ness which  makes  one  leap  toward,  and  cling  to  a  possible 
strength  and  good,  which  I  conclude  to  be  the  secret  of  all 
those  sudden  likings  that  spring  more  from  instinct  than  r<»a- 
son.  I  do  not  attempt  to  account  for  mine;  I  know  not  w)iy 
"the  soul  of  Jonathan  clave  to  the  soul  of  David."  I  ouly 
knew  that  it  was  so,  and  that  the  first  day  I  beheld  the  lad 
John  Halifax,  I,  Phineas  Fletcher,  "loved  him  as  my  o\rn 
soul." 

Thus  my  entreaty,  "You'll  not  go  away?"  was  so  earnt'st 
that  it  apparently  touched  the  friendless  boy  to  the  core. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  in  an  unsteady  voice,  as  leaning 
against  the  fireplace,  he  drew  his  hand  backward  and  forward 
across  his  face,  "you  are  very  kind;  Fll  stay  an  hour  or  so,  if 
you  wish  it." 

"Then  come  and  sit  down  here,  and  let  us  have  a  talk." 

What  this  talk  was  I  cannot  now  recall,  save  that  it  ranged 
over  many  and  wide  themes,  such  as  boys  delight  in — chiefly 
of  life  and  adventure.  He  knew  nothing  of  my  only  world — 
books. 

"Can  you  read?"  he  asked  me  at  last,  suddenly. 

"I  should  rather  think  so."  And  I  could  not  help  smiling, 
being  somewhat  proud  of  my  erudition. 

"And  write?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  15 

"Oh  yes;  certainly." 

He  thought  a  minute,  and  then  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "I  can't 
write,  and  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  able  to  learn;  I  wish 
you  would  put  down  something  in  a  book  for  me." 

"That  I  will." 

He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  little  case  of  leather,  with  aa 
under  one  of  black  silk;  within  this,  again,  was  a  book.  He 
would  not  let  it  go  out  of  his  hands,  but  held  it  so  that  I 
could  see  the  leaves.  It  was  a  Greek  Testament. 

"Look  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  fly-leaf,  and  I  read — 

"Guy  Halifax,  his  Book. 

"Guy  Halifax,  gentleman,  married  Muriel  Joyce,  spinster, 
May  17th,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1779. 

"John  Halifax,  their  son,  born  June  18th,  1780." 

There  was  one  more  entry,  in  a  feeble,  illiterate  female 
hand: 

"Guy  Halifax,  died  January  4th,  1781." 

"What  shall  I  write,  John?"  said  I,  after  a  minute  or  so  of 
silence. 

"I'll  tell  you  presently.     Can  I  get  you  a  pen?" 

He  leaned  on  my  shoulder  with  his  left  hand,  but  his  right 
never  once  let  go  of  the  precious  book. 

"Write— 'Muriel  Halifax,  died  January  1st,  1791.'  " 

"Nothing  more?" 

"Nothing  more." 

He  looked  at  the  writing  for  a  minute  or  two,  dried  it  care- 
fully by  the  fire,  replaced  the  book  in  its  two  cases,  and  put  it 
into  his  pocket.  He  said  no  other  word  but  "Thank  you," 
and  I  asked  him  no  questions. 

This  was  all  I  ever  heard  of  the  boy's  parentage;  nor  do 
I  believe  he  knew  more  himself.  He  was  indebted  to  no  fore- 
fathers for  a  family  history;  the  chronicle  commenced  with 
himself,  and  was  altogether  his  own  making.  No  romantic 
antecedents  ever  turned  up;  his  lineage  remained  uninvesti- 
gated,  and  his  pedigree  began  and  ended  with  his  own  honest 
name — John  Halifax. 

Jael  kept  coming  in  and  out  of  the  parlor  on  divers  excuses, 
eying  very  suspiciously  John  Halifax  and  me;  especially  when 
she  heard  me  laughing — a  rare  and  notable  fact — for  mirth 
was  not  the  fashion  in  our  house,  nor  the  tendency  of  my  own 
nature.  Now  this  young  lad,  hardly  as  the  world  had  knocked 


1*  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

him  about  even  already,  had  an  overflowing  spirit  of  quiet 
drollery  and  healthy  humor,  which  was  to  me  an  inexpressible 
relief.  It  gave  me  something  I  did  not  possess — something 
entirely  new.  I  could  not  look  at  the  dancing  brown  eyes,  at 
the  quaint  dimples  of  lurking  fun  that  played  hide-an  '-seek 
under  the  firm  set  mouth,  without  feeling  my  heart  cueered 
and  delighted,  like  one  brought  out  of  a  murky  chamber  into 
the  open  day. 

But  all  this  was  highly  objectionable  to  Jael. 

"Phineas!"  and  she  planted  herself  before  me  at  the  end  of 
the  table;  "it's  a  fine,  sunshiny  day;  thee  ought  to  be  out." 

"I  have  been  out,  thank  you,  Jael."  And  John  and  I  went 
on  talking. 

"Phineas!" — a  second  and  more  determined  attack — "too 
unch  laughing  bean't  good  for  thee;  and  it's  time  this  lad 
were  going  about  his  own  business." 

"Hush!  nonsense,  Jael." 

"No — she's  right/'  said  John  Halifax,  rising,  while  that 
look  of  premature  gravity,  learned  doubtless  out  of  hard  ex- 
perience, chased  all  the  boyish  fun  from  his  face.  "I've  had 
a  merry  day — thank  you  kindly  for  it!  and  now  I'll  be  gone." 

Gone!  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of — at  least,  not  till  my 
father  came  home.  For  now,  more  determinedly  than  ever, 
the  plan  which  I  had  just  ventured  to  hint  at  to  my  father 
fixed  itself  on  my  mind.  Surely,  he  would  not  refuse  me — 
me,  his  sickly  boy,  whose  life  had  in  it  so  little  pleasure. 

"Why  do  you  want  to  go?    You  have  no  work?" 

"No;  I  wish  I  had.     But  I'll  get  some." 

"How?" 

"Just  by  trying  everything  that  comes  to  hand.  That's 
the  only  way.  I  never  wanted  bread,  nor  begged  it,  yet- 
though  I've  been  rather  hungry.  And  as  for  clothes" — he 
looked  down  on  his  own,  light  and  threadbare,  here  and  there 
almost  burst  into  holes  by  the  stout  muscles  of  the  big,  grow- 
ing boy — looked  rather  disconsolately.  "I'm  afraid  she  would 
be  sorry,  that's  all!  She  always  kept  me  so  tidy." 

By  the  way  he  spoke  "she"  must  have  meant  his  mother. 
There  the  orphan  lad  had  an  advantage  over  me;  alas!  I  did 
not  remember  mine. 

"Come,"  I  said,  for  now  I  had  quite  made  up  my  mind  to 
take  no  denial,  and  fear  no  rebuff  from  my  father;  "cheer 
up.  Who  knows  what  may  turn  up?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  17 

"Oh,"  yes,  something  always  does;  I'm  not  afraid."  He 
tossed  back  his  curls,  and  looked  smiling  out  through  the  win- 
dow at  the  blue  sky;  that  steady,  brave,  honest  smile,  which 
will  meet  Fate  in  every  turn,  and  fairly  coax  the  jade  into 
good  1  -amor. 

"John,  do  you  know  you're  uncommonly  like  a  childish 
hero  of  mine — Dick  Whittington?  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
him?" 

"No." 

"Come  into  the  garden,  then,"  for  I  caught  another  omin- 
ous vision  of  Jael  in  the  door-way,  and  I  did  not  want  to  vex 
my  good  old  nurse;  besides,  unlike  John,  I  was  anything  but 
brave.  "You  will  hear  the  Abbey  bells  chime  presently — 
not  unlike  Bow  bells,  I  used  to  fancy  sometimes;  and  we'll  lie 
on  the  grass,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  true  and  particular 
story  of  Sir  Eichard  Whittington." 

I  lifted  myself  and  began  looking  for  my  crutches.  John 
found  and  put  them  into  my  hand,  with  a  grave,  pitiful  look. 

"You  don't  need  those  sort  of  things,"  I  said,  making  pre- 
tense to  laugh,  for  I  had  not  grown  used  to  them,  and  felt 
often  ashamed. 

"I  hope  you  will  not  need  them  always." 

"Perhaps  not — Doctor  Jessop  isn't  sure.  But  it  doesn't 
matter  much;  most  likely  I  sha'n't  live  long."  For  this  was, 
God  forgive  me,  always  the  last  and  greatest  comfort  I  had. 

John  looked  at  me — surprised,  troubled,  compassionate — 
but  he  did  not  say  a  word.  I  hobbled  past  him;  he  following 
through  the  long  passage  to  the  garden  door.  There  I 
paused,  tired  out.  John  Halifax  took  gentle  hold  of  my 
shoulder. 

"I  think,  if  you  did  not  mind,  I'm  sure  I  could  carry  you. 
I  carried  a  meal-sack  once,  weighing  eight  stone." 

I  burst  out  laughing,  which  maybe  was  what  he  wanted  and 
forthwith  consented  to  assume  the  place  of  the  meal-sack.  He  _ 
took  me  on  his  back — what  a  strong  fellow  he  was — and  fairly 
trotted  with  me  down  the  garden-walk.  We  were  both  very 
merry,  and  though  I  was  his  senior.  I  seemed  with  him,  out 
of  my  great  weakness  and  infirmity,  to  feel  almost  like  a  child. 

"Please  take  me  to  that  clematis  arbor:  it  looks  over  the 
Avon.  Now,  how  do  you  like  our  garden?" 

"It's  a  nice  place." 

He  did  not  go  into  ecstasies,  as  I  had  half  expected;  but 
2 


18  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

gazed  about  him  observantly,  while  a  quiet,  intense  satisfac- 
tion grew  and  diffused  itself  over  his  whole  countenance. 

"It's  a  very  nice  place.'* 

Certainly  it  was.  A  large  square,  chiefly  grass,  level  as  a 
bowling-green,  with  borders  round.  Beyond,  divided  by  a 
low  hedge,  was  the  kitchen  and  fruit  garden — my  father's 
pride,  as  this  old-fashioned  pleasance  was  mine.  When,  years 
ago,  I  was  too  weak  to  walk,  I  knew,  by  crawling,  every  inch 
of  the  soft,  green,  mossy,  daisy-patterned  carpet,  bounded  by 
its  broad  gravel  walks  and  above  that,  apparently  shut  in  as 
with  an  impassable  barrier  from  the  outer  world,  by  a  three- 
sided  fence,  the  high  wall,  the  yew-hedge,  and  the  river. 

John  Halifax's  comprehensive  gaze  seemed  to  take  in  all. 

"Have  you  lived  here  long?"  he  asked  me. 

"Ever  since  I  was  born." 

"Ah! — well,  it's  a  nice  place,"  he  repeated,  somewhat  sadly. 
"This  grass-plot  is  very  even — thirty  yards  square,  I  should 
guess.  I'd  get  up  and  pace  it,  only  I'm  rather  tired." 

"Are  you?    Yet  you  would  carry " 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  I've  often  walked  farther  than  to- 
day. But  still  it's  a  good  step  across  the  country  since  morn- 
ing." 

"How  far  have  you  come?" 

"From  the  foot  of  those  hills — I  forget  what  they  call 
them — over  there.  I  have  seen  bigger  ones — but  they  are 
steep  enough — bleak  and  cold,  too,  especially  when  one  is  ly- 
ing out  among  the  sheep.  At  a  distance  they  look  pleasant. 
This  is  a  very  pretty  view." 

Ay,  so  I  had  always  thought  it;  more  so  than  ever  new, 
when  I  had  some  one  to  say  how  "very  pretty"  it  was.  Let 
me  describe  it — this  first  landscape,  the  sole  picture  of  my 
boyish  days,  and  vivid  as  all  such  pictures  are. 

At  the  end  of  the  arbor  the  wall  which  enclosed  us  on  the 
riverward  side  was  cut  down — my  father  had  done  it  at  my 
asking — so  as  to  make  a  seat,  something  after  the  fashion  of 
Queen  Mary's  seat  at  Stirling,  of  which  I  had  read.  Thence, 
one  could  see  a  goodly  sweep  of  country.  First,  close  below, 
flowed  the  Avon — Shakespeare's  Avon — here  a  narrow,  slug- 
gish stream,  but  capable,  as  we  at  Norton  Bury  sometimes 
knew  to  our  cost,  of  being  roused  into  fierceness  and  foam. 
Now  it  slipped  on,  quietly  enough,  contenting  itself  with  turn- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  19 

ing  a  flour-mill  hard  by,  the  lazy  whir  of  which  made  a  sleepy, 
incessant  monotone  which  I  was  fond  of  hearing. 

From  the  opposite  bank  stretched  a  wide  green  level,  called 
the  Ham — dotted  with  pasturing  cattle  of  all  sorts.  Beyond 
it  was  a  second  river,  forming  an  arc  of  a  circle  round  the  ver- 
dant flat.  But  the  stream  itself  lay  so  low  as  to  be  invisible 
from  where  we  sat;  you  could  only  trace  the  line  of  its 
course  by  the  small  white  sails  that  glided  in  and  out,  oddly 
enough,  from  behind  clumps  of  trees,  and  across  meadow- 
lands. 

They  attracted  John's  attention.  "Those  can't  be  boats, 
surely.  Is  there  water  there?" 

"To  be  sure — or  you  would  not  see  the  sails.  It  is  the 
Severn — though  at  this  distance  you  can't  perceive  it;  yet  it 
is  deep  enough  too,  as  you  may  see  by  the  boats  it  carries. 
You  would  hardly  believe  so  to  look  at  it  here — but  I  believe 
it  gets  broader  and  broader,  and  turns  out  a  noble  river  by  the 
time  it  reaches  the  King's  Koads,  and  forms  the  Bristol  Chan- 
nel." 

"I've  seen  that!"  cried  John,  with  a  bright  look.  "Ah,  I 
like  the  Severn." 

He  stood  gazing  at  it  a  good  while — a  new  expression 
dawning  in  his  eyes.  Eyes  in  which  then,  for  the  first  time, 
I  watched  a  thought  grow,  and  grow,  till  out  of  them  was 
shining  a  beauty  absolutely  divine. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  Abbey  chimes  burst  out,  and  made  the 
lad  start. 

"What's  that?" 

"Turn  again,  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,"  I  sang 
to  the  bells;  and  then  it  seemed  such  a  commonplace  history, 
and  such  a  very  low  degree  of  honor  to  arrive  at,  that  I  was 
really  glad  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  John  the  story.  I  merely 
showed  him  where,  beyond  our  garden-wall,  and  in  the  invisi- 
ble high-road  that  interposed,  rose  up  the  grim  old  Abbey 
tower. 

"Probably  this  garden  belonged  to  the  Abbey  in  ancient 
time — our  orchard  is  so  fine.  The  monks  may  have  planted 
it;  they  liked  fruit,  these  old  fellows." 

"Oh!  did  they!"  He  evidently  did  not  quite  comprehend, 
but  was  trying — without  asking — to  find  out  what  I  referred 
to.  I  was  almost  ashamed,  lest  he  might  think  I  w&ated  to 
show  off  my  superior  knowledge. 


20  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"The  monks  were  parsons,  John,  you  know.  Very  good 
men,  I  dare  say,  but  rather  idle." 

"Oh,  indeed.  Do  you  think  they  planted  that  yew-hedge?" 
And  he  went  to  examine  it. 

Now,  far  and  near,  our  yew-hedge  was  noted.  There  was 
not  its  like  in  the  whole  country.  It  was  about  fifteen  feet 
high,  and  as  many  thick.  Century  and  century  of  growth,  with 
careful  clipping  and  training,  had  compacted  it  into  a  massive 
green  barrier,  as  close  and  impervious  as  a  wall. 

John  poked  in  and  about  it — peering  through  every  in- 
terstice— leaning  his  breast  against  the  solid  depth  of 
branches;  but  their  close  shield  resisted  all  his  strength. 

At  length  he  came  back  to  me,  his  face  glowing  with  the 
vain  efforts  he  had  made. 

"What  were  you  about?     Did  you  want  to  get  through?" 

"I  wanted  justjto  see  if  it  were  possible." 

I  shook  my  head.  "What  would  you  do  John,  if  you  were 
shut  up  here,  and  had  to  get  over  the  yew-hedge?  You  could 
not  climb  it!" 

"I  know  that,  and  therefore  should  not  waste  time  in  try- 
ing." 

"Would  you  give  up,  then?" 

He  smiled — there  was  no  "giving  up"  in  that  smile  of  his. 
"I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do — I'd  begin  and  break  it  twig  by 
twig,  till  I  forced  my  way  through,  and  got  out  safe  at  the 
other  side." 

"Well  done,  lad!  but  if  it's  all  the  same  to  thee  I  would 
rather  thee  did  not  try  that  experiment  upon  my  hedge  at 
present." 

My  father  had  come  behind,  and  overheard  us,  unobserved. 
We  were  both  somewhat  confounded,  though  a  grim  kindli- 
ness of  aspect  showed  that  he  was  not  displeased — nay,  even 
amused. 

"Is  that  thy  usual  fashion  of  getting  over  a  difficulty,  friend 
— what's  thy  name?" 

I  supplied  the  answer.  For  the  minute  Abel  Fletcher  ap- 
peared, John  seemed  to  lose  all  his  boyish  fun,  and  go  back  to 
that  premature  gravity  and  hardness  of  demeanor  which  I  sup- 
posed his  harsh  experience  of  the  world  of  men  had  neces- 
sarily taught  him,  but  which  was  very  sad  to  see  in  a  lad  so 
young. 

My  father  sat  down  beside  me  on  the  bench — pushed  aside 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  21 

an  intrusive  branch  of  clematis — finally,  because  it  would 
come  back  and  tickle  his  bald  pate,  broke  it  off,  and  threw  it 
into  the  river;  then  leaning  on  his  stick  with  both  hands,  eyed 
John  Halifax  sharply  all  over,  from  top  to  toe. 

"Didn't  thee  say  thee  wanted  work?  It  looks  rather  like 
it." 

His  glance  upon  the  shabby  clothes  made  the  boy  color 
violently. 

"Oh,  thee  need'st  not  be  ashamed;  better  men  than  thee 
have  been  in  rags.  Hast  thee  any  money?" 

"The  groat  you  gave  me,  that  is,  paid  me,  I  never  take  what 
I  don't  earn,"  said  the  lad,  sticking  a  hand  in  either  poor 
pocket. 

"Don't  be  afraid — I  was  not  going  to  give  thee  anything — 
except,  maybe — would  thee  like  some  work?" 

"0,  sir!" 

"0,  father!" 

I  hardly  know  which  was  the  most  grateful  cry. 

Abel  Fletcher  looked  surprised,  but  on  the  whole  not  ill- 
pleased.  Putting  on  and  pulling  down  his  broad-brimmed 
hat,  he  sat  meditatively  for  a  minute  or  so,  making  circles  in 
the  gravel  walk  with  the  end  of  his  stick.  People  said 
— nay,  Jael  herself,  once,  in  a  passion,  had  thrown  the  fact  at 
me — that  the  wealthy  Friend  himself  had  come  to  Norton 
Bury  without  a  shilling  in  his  pocket. 

"Well,  what  work  canst  thee  do,  lad?" 

"An}'thing,"  was  the  eager  answer. 

"Anything  generally  means  nothing,"  sharply  said  my  fa- 
ther. "What  hast  thee  been  at  all  this  year?  The  truth, 
mind!" 

John's  eyes  flashed,  but  a  look  from  mine  seemed  to  set  him 
right  again,.  He  said  quietly  and  respectfully,  "Let  me  think 
a  minute,  and  I'll  tell  you.  All  spring  I  was  at  a  farmer's, 
riding  the  plow-horses,  hoeing  turnips;  then  I  went  up  the 
hills  with  some  sheep;  in  June  I  tried  hay-making,  and  caught 
a  fever — you  needn't  start,  sir,  Fve  been  well  these  six  weeks, 
or  I  wouldn't  have  come  near  your  son — then " 

"That  will  do  lad— I'm  satisfied." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Thee  need  not  say  'sir5 — it  is  folly.  I  am  Abel  Fletcher." 
For  my  father  retained  scrupulously  the  Friends'  mode  of 
speech,  though  he  was  practically  but  a  lax  member  of  the 


22  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

Society,  and  had  married  out  of  its  pale.  In  this  announce- 
ment of  his  plain  name  appeared,  I  fancy,  more  pride  than 
humility. 

"Very  well,  I  will  remember,"  answered  the  boy  fearlessly, 
though  with  an  amused  twist  of  his  mouth,  speedily  re- 
strained. "And  now,  Abel  Fletcher,  I  shall  be  willing  and 
thankful  for  any  work  you  can  give  me." 

"We'll  see  about  it." 

I  looked  gratefully  and  hopefully  at  my  father;  but  his  next 
words  rather  modified  my  pleasure. 

"Phineas,  one  of  my  men  at  the  tan-yard  has  gone  and 
'listed  this  day — left  an  honest  livelihood  to  be  a  paid  cut- 
throat. Now  if  I  could  get  a  lad — one  too  young  to  be  caught 
hold  of  at  every  pot-house  by  that  man  of  blood,  the  recruiting 
sergeant.  Dost  thee  think  this  lad  is  fit  to  take  the  place?" 

"Whose  place,  father?" 

"Bill  Watkins'?" 

I  was  dumfounded!  I  had  occasionally  seen  the  said  Bill 
Watkins,  whose  business  it  was  to  collect  the  skins  which  my 
father  had  bought  from  the  farmers  round  about.  A  distinct 
vision  presented  itself  to  me  of  Bill  and  his  cart,  from  which 
dangled  the  sanguinary  exuviae  of  defunct  animals,  while  in 
front  the  said  Bill  sat  enthroned,  dirty-clad,  and  dirty-handed, 
with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  The  idea  of  John  Halifax  in  such 
a  position  was  not  agreeable. 

"But,  father " 

He  read  deprecation  in  my  looks — alas!  he  knew  too  well 
how  I  disliked  the  tan-yard  and  all  belonging  to  it.  "Thee'rt 
a  fool,  and  the  lad's  another.  He  may  go  about  his  business 
for  me." 

"But,  father,  isn't  there  anything  else?" 

"I  have  nothing  else,  or  if  I  had  I  wouldn't  give  it.  'He 
that  will  not  work,  neither  shall  he  eat.' " 

"I  will  work,"  said  John,  sturdily — he  had  listened,  scarcely 
comprehending,  to  my  father  and  me.  "I  don't  care  what  it 
is,  if  only  it's  honest  work." 

Abel  Fletcher  was  mollified.  He  turned  his  back  on  me — 
but  that  I  little  minded — and  addressed  himself  solely  to  John 
Halifax. 

"Canst  thee  drive?" 

"That  I  can!"  and  his  eyes  brightened  with  boyish  delight. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  23 

"Tut!  it's  only  a  cart — the  cart  with  the  skins.  Dost  thee 
know  anything  of  tanning?" 

"No,  but  I  can  learn." 

"Hey,  not  so  fast!  still,  better  be  fast  than  slow.  In  the 
meantime,  thee  can  drive  the  cart." 

"'Thank  you,  sir — Abel  Fletcher  I  mean — I'll  do  it  well. 
That  is,  as  well  as  I  can." 

"And  mind!  no  stopping  on  the  road.  No  drinking,  to  find 
the  King's  cursed  shilling  at  the  bottom  of  the  glass,  like  poor 
Bill,  for  thy  mother  to  come  crying  and  pestering.  Thee 
hasn't  got  one,  eh?  So  much  the  better — all  women  are 
born  fools — especially  mothers." 

"Sir!"  The  lad's  face  was  all  crimson  and  quivering;  his 
voice  choked;  it  was  with  difficulty  he  smothered  down  a 
burst  of  tears.  Perhaps  this  self-control  was  more  moving 
than  if  he  had  wept — at  least  it  answered  better  with  my  fa- 
ther. 

After  a  few  minutes  more,  during  which  his  stick  had  made 
a  little  grave  in  the  middle  of  the  walk,  and  buried  something 
there — I  think  something  beside  the  pebble — Abel  Fletcher 
said,  not  unkindly: 

"Well,  I'll  take  thee;  though  it  isn't  often  I  take  a  lad 
without  a  character  of  some  sort.  I  suppose  thee  hast  none." 

"None,"  was  the  answer,  while  the  straightforward,  steady 
gaze  which  accompanied  it  unconsciously  contradicted  the 
statement;  his  own  honest  face  was  the  lad's  best  witness — at 
all  events,  I  thought  so. 

"  'Tis  done  then,"  said  my  father,  concluding  the  business 
more  quickly  than  I  had  ever  before  known  his  cautious  tem- 
per settle  even  such  a  seemingly  trifling  matter*  I  say  seem- 
ingly. How  blindly  we  talk  when  we  talk  of  "trifles." 

Carelessly  rising  he,  from  some  kindly  impulse,  or  else  to 
mark  the  closing  of  the  bargain,  shook  the  boy's  hand,  and 
left  in  it  a  shilling. 

"What  is  this  for?" 

"To  show  I  have  hired  thee  as  my  servant." 

"Servant!"  John  repeated  hastily,  and  rather  proudly. 
"Oh  yes;  I  understand — well,  I  will  try  and  serve  you  well." 

My  father  did  not  notice  that  manly,  self-dependent  smile. 
He  was  too  busy  calculating  how  many  more  of  those  said 
shillings  would  be  a  fair  equivalent  for  such  Jabor  as  a  lad, 
even  so  much  the  junior  of  Bill  Watkins,  could  supply.  After 


24  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

some  cogitation  he  hit  upon  the  right  sum.  I  forget  how 
much — be  sure  it  was  not  overmuch;  for  money  was  scarce 
enough  in  this  war-time;  and,  besides,  there  was  a  belief  afloat, 
so  widely  that  it  tainted  even  my  worthy  father,  that  plenty 
was  not  good  for  the  working  classes;  they  required  to  be  kept 
low. 

Having  settled  the  question  of  wages,  which  John  Halifax 
did  not  debate  at  all,  my  father  left  us,  but  turned  back  when 
half-way  across  the  green-turfed  square. 

"Thee  said  thee  had  no  money;  there's  a  week  in  advance, 
my  son  being  witness  I  pay  it  thee;  and  I  can  pay  thee  a  shill- 
ing less  every  Saturday  till  we  get  straight." 

"Very  well,  sir;  good-afternoon,  and  thank  you." 

John  took  off  his  cap  as  he  spoke;  Abel  Fletcher,  involun- 
tarily almost,  touched  his  hat  in  return  of  the  salutation. 
Then  he  walked  away,  and  we  had  the  garden  all  to  ourselves 
— we,  Jonathan  and  his  new-found  David. 

I  did  not  "fall  upon  his  neck,"  like  the  princely  Hebrew  to 
whom  I  have  likened  myself,  but  whom,  alas!  I  resembled  in 
nothing  save  my  loving.  But  I  grasped  his  hand,  for  the  first 
time,  and  looking  up  at  him,  as  he  stood  thoughtfully  by  me, 
whispered  "that  I  was  very  glad." 

"Thank  you,  so  am  I,"  said  he,  in  a  low  tone.  Then  all 
his  own  manner  returned;  he  threw  his  battered  cap  high  up 
in  the  air,  and  shouted  out,  "Hurrah  1" — a  thorough  boy. 

-And  I  in  my  poor,  quavering  voice,  shouted  too. 


CHAPTER  III. 

When  I  was  young,  and  long  after  then,  at  intervals,  I  had 
the  very  useless,  sometimes  harmful,  and  invariably  foolish 
habit  of  keeping  a  diary.  To  me,  at  least,  it  has  been  less 
foolish  and  harmful  than  to  most;  and  out  of  it,  together 
with  much  drawn  out  of  the  stores  of  memory,  made  preter- 
naturally  vivid  by  a  long  introverted  life,  which,  colorless 
itself,  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  reflect  and  retain  clear  images 
of  the  lives  around  it — out  of  these  two  sources  I  have  com- 
piled the  present  history. 

Therein,  necessarily,  many  blank  epochs  occur.     These  I 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  25 

shall  not  try  to  fill  up,  but  merely  resume  the  thread  of  nar- 
ration as  recollection  serves. 

Thus,  after  this  first  day,  many  days  came  and  went  before 
I  again  saw  John  Halifax — almost  before  I  again  thought  of 
him.  For  it- was  one  of  my  seasons  of  excessive  pain;  when  I 
found  it  difficult  to  think  of  anything  beyond  those  four  gray- 
painted  walls;  where  morning,  noon  and  night  slipped  wearily 
awaj',  marked  by  no  changes,  save  from  daylight  to  candle- 
light, from  candlelight  to  dawn. 

Afterward,  as  my  pain  abated,  I  began  to  be  haunted  by  oc- 
casional memories  of  something  pleasant  that  had  crossed  my 
dreary  life;  visions  of  a  brave,  bright  young  face,  ready  alike 
to  do  battle  with  and  enjoy  the  world.  I  could  hear  the 
voice,  that,  speaking  to  me,  was  always  tender  with  pity,  yet 
not  pity  enough  to  wound;  I  could  see  the  peculiar  smile  just 
creeping  round  his  grave  mouth,  that  irrepressible  smile,  in- 
dicating the  atmosphere  of  thorough  heart-cheerfulness, 
which  ripens  all  the  fruits  of  a  noble  nature,  and  without 
which'  the  very  noblest  has  about  it  something  unwholesome, 
blank  and  cold. 

I  wondered  if  John  had  ever  asked  for  me.  At  length  I 
put  the  question. 

Jael  "thought  he  had — but  wasn't  sure.  Didn't  bother  her 
head  about  such  folk." 

"If  he  asked  again,  might  he  come  upstairs?" 

"No." 

I  was  too  weak  to  combat,  and  Jael  was  too  strong  an  ad- 
versary; so  I  lay  for  days  and  days  in  my  sick-room  often 
thinking,  but  never  speaking,  about  the  lad.  Never  once 
asking  for  him  to  come  to  me.  Not  though  it  would  have 
been  life  to  me  to  see  his  merry  face — I  longed  after  him  so. 

At  last  I  broke  the  bonds  of  sickness — which  Jael  always 
riveted  as  long  and  as  tightly  as  she  could — and  plunged  into 
the  outer  world  again. 

It  was  one  market-day — Jael  being  absent — that  I  came 
down-stairs.  A  soft,  bright,  autumn  morning,  mild  as  spring, 
coaxing  a  wandering  robin  to  come  and  sing  to  me,  loud  as  a 
choir  of  birds,  out  of  the  thin  trees  of  the  Abbey  yard.  I 
opened  the  window  to  hear  him,  though  all  the  while  in  mor- 
tal fear  of  Jael.  I  listened,  but  caught  no  tone  of  her  sharp 
voice,  which  usually  came  painfully  from  the  back  regions  of 
the  house;  it  would  ill  have  harmonized  with  the  sweet  au- 


26  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

tumn  day  and  the  robin's  song.  I  sat,  idly  thinking  so,  and 
wondering  whether  it  were  a  necessary  and  universal  fact 
that  human  beings,  unlike  the  year,  should  become  harsh  and 
unlovely  as  they  grew  old. 

My  robin  had  done  singing,  and  I  amused  myself  with 
watching  a  spot  of  scarlet  winding  down  the  rural  road,  our 
house  being  on  the  verge  where  Norton  Bury  melted  into  "the 
country."  It  turned  out  to  be  the  clqak  of  a  well-to-do  young 
farmer's  wife  riding  to  market  in  her  cart  beside  her  jolly- 
looking  spouse.  Very  spruce  and  self-satisfied  she  appeared, 
and  the  market  people  turned  to  stare  after  her,  for  her  cos- 
tume was  a  novelty  then.  Doubtless  many  thought  as  I  did, 
how  much  prettier  was  scarlet  than  duffle  gray. 

Behind  the  farmer's  cart  came  another,  which  at  first  I 
scarcely  noticed,  being  engrossed  by  the  ruddy  face  under  the 
red  cloak.  The  farmer  himself  nodded  good  humoredly,  but 
Mrs.  Scarlet-cloak  turned  up  her  nose.  "Oh,  pride,  pride!" 
I  thought,  amused,  and  watched  the  two  carts,  the  second  of 
which  was  with  difficulty  passing  the  farmer's  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  narrow  road.  At  last  it  succeeded  in  getting  in 
advance,  to  the  young  woman's  evident  annoyance,  until  the 
driver,  turning,  lifted  his  hat  to  her  with  such  a  merry,  frank, 
pleasant  smile. 

Surely,  I  knew  that  smile,  and  the  well-set  head  with  its 
light  curly  hair.  Also,  alas!  I  knew  the  cart  with  relics  of 
departed  sheep  dangling  out  behind.  It  was  our  cart  of  skins 
and  John  Halifax  was  driving  it. 

"John!  John!"  I  called  out,  but  he  did  not  hear,  for  his 
horse  had  taken  fright  at  the  red  cloak,  and  required  a  steady 
hand.  Very  steady  the  boy's  hand  was,  so  that  the  farmer 
clapped  his  two  great  fists,  and  shouted  "Bravo!" 

But  John — my  John  Halifax — he  sat  in  his  cart  and  drove. 
His  appearance  was  much  as  when  I  first  saw  him — shabbier, 
perhaps,  as  if  through  repeated  drenchings;  this  had  been  a 
wet  autumn,  Jael  had  told  me.  Poor  John!  well  might  he 
look  gratefully  up  at  the  clear  blue  sky  to-day;  ay,  and  the  sky 
never  looked  down  on  a  brighter,  cheerier  face — the  same 
face,  which,  whatever  rags  it  surmounted,  would,  I  believe, 
have  ennobled  them  all. 

I  leaned  out,  watching  him  approach  our  house;  watching 
him  with  so  great  pleasure  that  I  forget  to  wonder  whether  or 
no  he  would  notice  me.  He  did  not  at  first,  being  busy  over 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  21 

his  horse;  until,  just  as  the  notion  flashed  across  my  mind 
that  he  was  passing  by  our  house — also,  how  keenly  his  doing 
so  would  pain  me — the  lad  looked  up. 

A  beaming  smile  of  surprise  and  pleasure,  a  friendly  nod, 
then  all  at  once  his  manner  changed;  he  took  off  his  cap  and 
bowed  ceremoniously  to  his  master's  son. 

For  the  moment  I  was  hurt;  then  I  could  not  but  respect 
the  honest  pride  which  thus  intimated  that  he  knew  his  own 
position  and  wished  neither  to  ignore  nor  to  alter  it;  all  ad- 
vances between  us  must  evidently  come  from  my  side.  So, 
having  made  his  salutation,  he  was  driving  on,  when  I  called 
after  him : 

"John!  John!" 

"Yes,  sir.     I  am  so  glad  you're  better  again." 

"Stop  one  minute  till  I  come  out  to  you."  And  I  crawled 
on  my  crutches  to  the  front  door,  forgetting  everything  but 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  him — forgetting  even  my  terror  of 
Jael.  What  could  she  say?  even  though  she  held  nominally 
the  Friends'  doctrine — obeyed  in  the  letter  at  least,  "Call  no 
man  your  master'' — what  would  Jael  say  if  she  found  me, 
Phineas  Fletcher,  talking  in  front  of  my  father's  respectable 
mansion  with  the  vagabond  lad  who  drove  my  father's  cart  of 
skins  ? 

But  I  braved  her,  and  opened  the  door.  "John,  where  are 
you?" 

"Here"  (he  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  with  the  reins 
on  his  arm);  "did  you  want  me?" 

"Yes.     Come  up  here;  never  mind  the  cart." 

But  that  was  not  John's  way.  He  led  the  refractory  horse, 
settled  him  comfortably  under  a  tree,  and  gave  him.  in  charge 
to  a  small  boy.  Then  he  bounded  back  across  the  road,  and 
was  up  the  steps  to  my  side  in  a  single  leap. 

"I  had  no  notion  of  seeing  you.  They  said  you  were  in  bed 
yesterday."  (Then  he  had  been  inquiring  for  me!)  "Ought 
you  to  be  standing  at  the  door  this  cold  day?" 

"It's  quite  warm,"  I  said,  looking  up  at  the  sunshine,  and 
shivering. 

"Please,  go  in." 

"If  you'll  come  too." 

He  nodded,  then  put  his  arm  around  mine,  and  helped  me 
in,  as  if  he  had  been  a  big  elder  brother,  and  I  a  little  ailing 
child.  Well  nursed  and  carefully  guarded  as  I  had  always 


28  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

been,  it  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ever  knew  the  meaning 
of  that  rare  thing — tenderness.  A  quality  different  from 
kindliness,  affectionateness,  or  benevolence;  a  quality  which 
can  exist  only  in  strong,  deep,  and  undemonstrative  natures, 
and  therefore  in  its  perfection  is  oftenest  found  in  men.  John 
Halifax  had  it  more  than  any  one,  woman  or  man,  that  I  ever 
knew. 

"I'm  glad  you're  better/'  he  said,  and  said  no  more.  But 
one  look  of  his  expressed  as  much  as  half  a  dozen  sympathetic 
sentences  of  other  people. 

"And  how  have  you  been,  John?  How  do  you  like  the  tan- 
yard?  Tell  me,  "frankly." 

He  pulled  a  wry  face,  though  comical  withal,  and  said, 
cheerily — "Everybody  must  like  what  brings  them  their  daily 
bread.  It's  a  grand  thing  for  me  not  to  have  been  hungry  for 
nearly  thirty  days." 

"Poor  John!"  I  put  my  hand  on  his  wrist — his  strong, 
brawny  wrist.  Perhaps  the  contrast  involuntarily  struck  us 
both  with  the  truth — good  for  both  to  learn — that  Heaven's 
ways  are  not  so  unequal  as  we  sometimes  fancy  they  seem. 

"I  have  so  often  wanted  to  see  you,  John.  Couldn't  you 
come  in  now?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  pointed  to  the  cart.  That  minute, 
through  the  open  hall-door,  I  perceived  Jael  sauntering  leis- 
urely home  from  market. 

Now,  if  I  was  a  coward,  it  was  not  for  myself  this  time. 
The  avalanche  of  ill  words  I  knew  must  fall,  but  it  should  not 
fall  on  him,  if  I  could  help  it. 

"Jump  up  on  your  cart,  John.  Let  me  see  how  well  you 
can  drive.  There — good-by,  for  the  present.  Are  you  going 
to  the  tan-yard?" 

"Yes,  for  the  rest  of  the  day."  And  he  made  a  face  as  if  he 
did  not  quite  revel  in  that  delightful  prospect.  No  wonder. 

"I'll  come  and  see  you  there  this  afternoon." 

"No?" — with  a  look  of  delighted  surprise.  "But  you  musi 
not — you  ought  not." 

"But  I  will!"  And  I  laughed  to  hear  myself  actually  using 
that  phrase.  What  would  Jael  have  said? 

What — as  she  arrived  just  in  time  to  receive  a  half  ma- 
licious, half -ceremonious  bow  from  John  as  he  drove  off — what 
that  excellent  woman  did  say,  I  have  not  the  slightest  recol- 
lection. I  only  remember  that  it  did  not  frighten  and  grieve 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  29 

me  as  such  attacks  used  to  do;  that,  in  her  own  vernacular,  it 
all  "went  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  t'other;"  that  I  persisted  in 
looking  out  until  the  last  glimmer  of  the  bright  curls  had 
disappeared  down  the  sunshiny  road — then  shut  the  front 
door,  and  crept  in,  content. 

Between  that  time  and  dinner,  I  sat  quiet  enough  even  to 
please  Jael.  I  was  thinking  over  the  beautiful  old  Bible 
story,  which  latterly  had  so  vividly  impressed  itself  on  my 
mind;  thinking  of  Jonathan,,  as  he  walked  "by  the  stone 
Ezel,"  with  the  shepherd  lad,  who  was  to  be  King  of  Israel. 
I  wondered  whether  he  would  have  loved  him,  and  seen  the 
same  future  perfection  in  him,  had  Jonathan,  the  king's  son, 
met  the  poor  David  keeping  his  sheep  among  the  folds  of 
Bethlehem. 

When  my  father  came  home,  he  found  me  waiting  in  my 
place  at  table.  He  only  said,  "Thee  art  better  then,  my 
son?"  But  I  knew  how  glad  he  was  to  see  me.  He  gave 
token  of  this  by  being  remarkably  conversable  over  our  meal 
— though,  as  usual,  his  conversation  had  a  sternly  moral  tone, 
adapted  to  the  improvement  of  what  he  persisted  in  consider- 
ing my  "infant"  mind.  It  had  reference  to  an  anecdote  Dr. 
Jessop  had  just  been  telling  him — about  a  little  girl,  one  of 
our  doctor's  patients,  who,  in  some  passionate  struggle,  had 
hurt  herself  very  much  with  a  knife. 

"Let  this  be  a  warning  to  thee,  my  son,  not  to  give  way  to 
violent  passions."  (My  good  father,  thought  I,  there  is  little 
fear.)  "For  this  child — I  remember  her  father  well,  for  he 
lived  at  Kings  well  here;  he  was  violent  too,  and  much  given 
to  evil  ways  before  he  went  abroad — Phineas,  this  child,  this 
miserable  child,  will  bear  the  mark  of  the  wound  all  her  life." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  I,  absently. 

"No  need  to  pity  her;  her  spirit  is  not  half  broken  yet. 
Thomas  Jessop  said  to  me,  'That  little  Ursula ' '' 

"Is  her  name  Ursula?"  And  I  called  to  mind  the  little 
girl  who  had  tried  to  give  some  bread  to  the  hungry  John 
Halifax,  and  whose  cry  of  pain  we  heard  as  the  door  shut 
upon  her.  Poor  little  lady!  how  sorry  I  was.  I  knew  John 
would  be  so  infinitely  sorry  too — and  all  to  no  purpose — that 
I  determined  not  to  tell  him  anything  about  it.  The  next 
time  I  saw  Dr.  Jessop,  I  asked  him  after  the  child,  and  learned 
she  had  been  taken  away  somewhere — I  forget  where;  and 
then  the  whole  affair  slipped  from  my  memory. 


30  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Father,"  said  I,  when  he  ceased  talking — and  Jael,  who 
always  ate  her  dinner  at  the  same  time  and  table  as  ourselves, 
but  "below  the  salt,"  had  ceased  nodding  a  respectful  running 
comment  on  all  he  said — "Father?" 

"Well,  my  son." 

"I  should  like  to  go  with  thee  to  the  tan-yard  this  after- 
noon." 

Here  Jael,  who  had  been  busy  pulling  back  the  table,  re- 
placing the  long  row  of  chairs,  and  re-sanding  the  broad  cen- 
ter Sahara  of  the  room  to  its  dreary,  pristine  aridness,  stopped 
fairly  aghast  with  amazement. 

"Abel — Abel  Fletcher!  the  lad's  just  out  of  his  bed;  he  is 
no  more  fit  to — " 

"Pshaw,  woman!"  was  the  sharp  answer.  "So,  Phineas, 
thee  art  really  strong  enough  to  go  out?" 

"If  thou  wilt  take  me,  father." 

He  looked  pleased,  as  he  always  did  when  I  used  the 
Friends'  mode  of  phraseology — for  I  had  not  been  brought  up 
in  the  Society;  this  having  been  the  last  request  of  my  mother, 
rigidly  observed  by  her  husband.  The  more  so,  people  said, 
as  while  she  lived  they  had  not  been  quite  happy  together. 
But  whatever  he  was  to  her,  in  their  brief  union,  he  was  a 
good  father  to  me,  and  for  his  sake  I  have  always  loved  and 
honored  the  Society  of  Friends. 

"Phineas,"  said  he  (after  having  stopped  a  volley  of  poor 
Jael's  indignations,  beseechings,  threats,  and  prognostica- 
tions, by  a  resolute  "Get  the  lad  ready  to  go") — "Phineas, 
my  son,  I  rejoice  to  see  thy  mind  turning  toward  business.  I 
trust,  should  better  health  be  vouchsafed  thee,  that  some  day 
soon " 

"Not  just  yet,  father,"  said  I,  sadly — for  I  knew  what  he 
referred  to,  and  that  it  would  never  be.  Mentally  and  physi- 
cally I  alike  revolted  from  my  father's  trade.  I  held  the  tan- 
yard  in  abhorrence — to  enter  it  made  me  ill  for  days;  some- 
times for  months  and  months  I  never  went  near  it.  That  I 
should  ever  be,  what  was  my  poor  father's  one  desire,  his  as- 
sistant and  successor  in  his  business,  was,  I  knew,  a  thing  to- 
tally impossible. 

It  hurt  me  a  little  that  my  project  of  going  with  him  to- 
day should  in  any  way  have  deceived  him;  and  rather  silently 
and  drearily  we  set  out  together;  progressing  through  Norton 
Bury  streets,  in  our  old  way,  my  father  marching  along  in  nib 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  31 

grave  'fashion,  I  steering  my  little  carriage,  and  keeping  as 
close  as  I  could  beside  him.  Many  a  person  looked  at  us  as 
we  passed;  almost  everybody  knew  us,  but  few,  even  of  our 
own  neighbors,  saluted  us;  we  were  Nonconformists  and 
Quakers. 

I  had  never  been  in  the  town  since  the  day  I  came  through 
it  with  John  Halifax.  The  season  was  much  later  now,  but  it 
was  quite  warm  still  in  the  sunshine,  and  very  pleasant  looked 
the  streets,  even  the  close,  narrow  streets  of  Norton  Bury.  I 
beg  its  pardon;  antiquaries  hold  it  a  most  "interesting  and  re- 
markable" place;  and  I  myself  have  sometimes  admired  its 
quaint,  overhanging,  ornamented  house-front — blackened  and 
wonderfully  old.  But  one  rarely  notices  what  has  been  fa- 
miliar throughout  life;  and  now  I  was  less  struck  by  the 
beauty  of  the  picturesque  old  town,  than  by  the  muddiness  of 
its  pathways,  and  the  mingled  noises  of  murmuring  looms, 
scolding  women,  and  squabbling  children,  that  came  up  from 
the  alleys  which  lay  between  the  High  Street  and  the  Avon. 
In  those  alleys  hundreds  of  our  poor  folk  lived,  huddled  to- 
gether, in  misery,  rags  and  dirt.  Was  John  Halifax  living 
there  too? 

My  father's  tan-yard  was  in  an  alley  a  little  farther  on. 
Already  I  perceived  the  familiar  odor;  sometimes  a  not  un- 
pleasant barky  smell;  at  other  times  borne  in  horrible  wafts, 
as  if  from  a  lately  forsaken  battle-field.  I  wondered  how  any- 
body could  endure  it — yet  some  did;  and  among  the  workmen, 
as  we  entered,  I  looked  round  for  the  lad  I  knew. 

He  was  sitting_in  a  corner  of  one  of  the  sheds,  helping  two 
or  three  women  to  split  bark,  very  busy  at  work;  yet  he  found 
time  to  stop  now  and  then,  and  administer  a  wisp  of  sweet  hay 
to  the  old  blind  mare,  as  she  went  slowly  round  and  round, 
turning  the  bark-mill.  Nobody  seemed  to  notice  him,  and  he 
did  not  speak  to  anybody. 

As  we  passed,  John  did  not  even  see  us.  I  asked  my  father, 
in  a  whisper,  how  he  liked  the  boy. 

"What  boy?  Eh,  him?  Oh,  well  enough — there's  no  harm 
in  him  that  I  know  of.  Dost  thee  want  him  to  wheel  thee 
about  the  yard?  Here,  I  say,  lad — bless  me!  I've  forgot  thy 
name." 

John  Halifax  started  up  at  the  sharp  tone  of  command; 
but  when  he  saw  me  he  smiled.  My  father  walked  on  to  some 
pits  where  he  told  me  he  was  trying  an  important  experiment, 


32  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

how  a  hide  might  be  tanned  completely  in  five  months  instead 
of  eight.  I  stayed  behind. 

''John,  I  want  you." 

John  shook  himself  free  from  the  bark-heap,  and  came, 
rather  hesitatingly  at  first. 

"Anything  I  can  do  for  you,  sir?" 

"Don't  call  me  'sir;'  if  I  say  'John',  why  don't  you  sav 
Thineas?"; 

And  I  held  out  my  hand — his  was  all  grimed  with  bark  dust. 

"Are  you  not  ashamed  to  shake  hands  with  me?" 

"Nonsense,  John." 

So  we  settled  that  point  entirely.  And  though  he  never 
failed  to  maintain  externally  a  certain  gentle  respectfulness 
of  demeanor  toward  me,  yet  it  was  more  the  natural  defer- 
ence of  the  younger  to  the  elder,  of  the  strong  to  the  weak,  than 
the  duty  paid  by  a  serving-lad  to  his  master's  son.  And  this 
was  how  I  best  liked  it  to  be. 

He  guided  me  carefully  among  the  tan-pits — those  deep 
fosses  of  abomination,  with  a  slender  network  of  pathways 
thrown  between — until  we  reached  the  lower  end  of  the  yard. 
It  was  bounded  by  the  Avon  only,  and  by  a  great  heap  oi' 
refuse  bark. 

"This  is  not  a  bad  place  to  rest  in;  if  you  liked  to  get  out  of 
the  carriage,  I'd  make  you  comfortable  here  in  no  time." 

I  was  quite  willing;  so  he  ran  off  and  fetched  an  old  horse- 
rug,  which  he  laid  upon  the  soft,  dry  mass.  Then  he  helped 
me  thither,  and  covered  me  with  a  cloak.  Lying  thus,  with 
my  hat  over  my  eyes,  just  distinguishing  the  shiny  glimmer 
of  the  Avon  running  below,  and  beyond  that  the  green,  level 
Ham,  dotted  with  cows,  my  position  was  anything  but  un- 
pleasant. In  fact,  positively  agreeable — ay,  even  though  tho 
tan-yard  was  close  behind;  but  here  it  would  offend  none  of 
my  senses. 

"Are  you  comfortable,  Phineas?" 

"Very,  if  you  would  come  and  sit  down  too." 

"That  I  will." 

And  then  we  began  to  talk.  I  asked  him  if  he  often  pat- 
ronized the  bark-heap,  he  seemed  so  very  much  at  home  there. 

"So  I  am,"  he  answered,  smiling;  "it  is  my  castle — my 
house." 

"And  not  unpleasant  to  liv«  at,  either." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  33 

"Except  when  it  rains.  Does  it  always  rain  at  Norton 
Bury?" 

"For  shame,  John!"  and  I  pointed  to  the  bluest  of  au- 
tumnal skies,  though  in  the  distance  an  afternoon  mist  was 
slowly  creeping  on. 

"All  very  fine  now,  but  there's  a  fog  coming  over  Severn; 
and  it  is  sure  to  rain  at  nightfall.  I  shall  not  get  my  nice 
little  bit  of  October  evening." 

"You  must  spend  it  within  doors  then."  John  shook  his 
head.  "You  ought;  it  must  be  dreadfully  cold  on  this  bark- 
heap  after  sunset." 

"Bather,  sometimes.  Are  you  cold  now?  Shall  I  fetch 

?  but  I  haven't  anything  fit  to  wrap  you  in,  except  this 

rug." 

He  muffled  it  closer  round  me;  infinitely  light  and  tender 
was  his  rough-looking  boy's  hand. 

"I  never  saw  anybody  so  thin  as  you;  thinner  much  since  I 
saw  you.  Have  you  been  very,  very  ill,  Phineas?  What 
ailed  you?" 

His  anxiety  was  so  earnest  that  I  explained  to  him  what 
I  may  as  well  explain  here,  and  dismiss,  once  for  all,  the  use- 
less topic,  that  from  my  birth  I  had  been  puny  and  diseased, 
that  my  life  "had  been  a  succession  of  sicknesses,  and  that  I 
could  hope  for  little  else  until  the  end. 

"But  don't  think  I  mind  it,  John,"  for  I  was  grieved  to 
see  his  shocked  and  troubled  look.  "I  am  very  content;  I 
have  a  quiet  home,  a  good  father,  and  now  I  think  and  be- 
lieve I  have  found  the  one  thing  I  wanted — a  good  friend." 

He  smiled,  but  only  because  I  did.  I  saw  he  did  not  un- 
derstand me.  In  him,  as  in  most  strong  and  self-contained 
temperaments,  was  a  certain  slowness  to  receive  impressions, 
which,  however,  being  once  received,  are  indelible.  Though  I . 
being  in  so  many  things  his  opposite,  had  none  of  this  pecul- 
iarity, but  felt  at  once  quickly  and  keenly,  yet  I  rather  liked 
the  contrary  in  him,  as  I  think  we  almost  always  do  like  in 
another  those  peculiarities  which  are  most  different  from  our 
own.  Therefore  I  was  neither  vexed  nor  hurt  because  the 
lad  was  slow  to  perceive  all  that  he  had  so  soon  become,  and 
all  that  I  meant  him  to  become,  to  me.  I  knew  from  every 
tone  of  his  voice,  every  chance  expression  of  his  honest  eyes, 
that  he  was  one  of  those  characters  in  which  we  may  be  sure 
that  for  each  feeling  they  express,  lies  a  countless  wealth  of 

3 


34  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

the  same,  unexpressed  below;  a  character  the  key-stone  of 
which  was  that  whereon  is  built  all  liking  and  all  love — de- 
pendableness.  He  was  one  whom  you  may  be  long  in  know- 
ing, but  whom  the  more  you  know,  the  more  you  trust;  and 
once  trusting,  you  trust  forever. 

Perhaps  I  may  be  supposed  imaginative,  or,  at  least,  pre- 
mature in  discovering  all  these  characteristics  in  a  boy  of 
fourteen;  and  possibly  in  thus  writing  of  him  I  may  unwit- 
tingly be  drawing  a  little  from  after-experience;  however,  be- 
ing the  truth,  let  it  stand. 

"Come,"  said  I,  changing  the  conversation,  "we  have  had 
enough  of  me;  how  goes  the  world  with  you?  Have  you  taken 
kindly  to  the  tan-yard?  Answer  frankly." 

He  looked  at  me  hard,  put  both  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  began  to  whistle  a  tune. 

"Don't  shirk  the  question,  please,  John.  I  want  to  know 
the  real  truth." 

"Well,  then,  I  hate  the  tan-yard." 

Having  relieved  his  mind  by  this  ebullition,  and  by  kicking 
a  small  heap  of  tan  right  down  into  the  river,  he  became  com- 
posed. 

"But,  Phineas,  don't  imagine  I  intend  to  hate  it  always;  I 
intend  to  get  used  to  it,  as  many  a  better  fellow  than  I  has  got 
used  to  many  a  worse  thing.  It's  wicked  to  hate  vhat  wins 
one's  bread,  and  is  the  only  thing  one  is  likely  to  get  on  in 
the  world  with,  merely  because  it's  disagreeable." 

"You  are  a  wise  lad  of  your  age,  John." 

"Now  don't  you  be  laughing  at  me."  (But  I  was  not,  I  was 
in  solemn  earnest.)  "And  don't  think  I'm  worse  than  I  am; 
and  especially  that  I'm  not  thankful  to  your  good  father  for 
giving  me  a  lift  in  the  world — the  first  I  ever  really  had.  If 
I  get  one  foot  on  the  ladder,  perhaps  I  may  climb." 

"I  should  rather  believe  so,"  answered  I,  very  confidently. 
"But  you  seem  to  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  these  sort 
of  things." 

"Oh  yes!  I  have  plenty  of  time  for  thinking,  and  one's 
thoughts  travel  fast  enough,  lying  on  this  bark  heap — faster 
than  in-doors.  I  often  wish  I  could  read — that  is,  read  easily. 
As  it  is,  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  think,  and  nothing  to 
think  of  but  myself,  and  what  I  should  like  to  be." 

"Suppose,  after  Dick  Whittington's  fashion,  you  succeeded 
to  your  master's  business,  should  you  like  to  be  a  tanner?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  35 

He  paused,  his  truthful  face  betraying  him.  Then  he  said, 
resolutely,  "I  would  like  to  be  anything  that  was  honest  and 
honorable.  It's  a  notion  of  mine,  that  whatever  a  man  may 
be,  his  trade  does  not  make  him — he  makes  his  trade.  That 
is — but  I  know  I  can't  put  the  subject  clear,  for  I  have  not 
got  it  clear  in  my  own  head  yet — I'm  only  a  kd.  However, 
it  all  comes  to  this — that  whether  I  like  it  or  not,  I'll  stick  to 
the  tanning  as  long  as  I  can." 

"That's  right;  I'm  so  glad.  Nevertheless" — and  I  watched 
him  as  he  stood,  his  foot  planted  firmly,  no  easy  feat  on  the 
shifting  bark-heap,  his  head  erect,  and  his  mouth  close,  but 
smiling — "nevertheless,  John,  it's  my  opinion  you  might  be 
anything  you  liked." 

He  laughed.  "Questionable  that — at  least  at  present. 
Whatever  I  may  be,  I  am  just  now  the  lad  that  drives  your 
father's  cart,  and  works  in  your  father's  tan-yard — John  Hali- 
fax, and  very  much  at  your  service,  Mr.  Phineas  Fletcher." 

Half  in  fun,  half  in  earnest,  he  uncovered  his  fair  locks, 
with  a  bow  so  contradictory  to  the  rest  of  his  appearance  that 
I  involuntarily  recalled  the  Greek  Testament  and  "Guy  Hali- 
fax, Gentleman."  However,  that  could  be  no  matter  to  me, 
or  to  him  either,  now.  The  lad,  like  many  another,  owed 
notbing  to  his  father  but  his  mere  existence — Heaven  knows 
whether  that  gift  is  oftenest  a  curse  or  a  boon. 

The  afternoon  had  waned  during  our  talk;  but  I  was  very 
loath  to  part  with  my  friend.  Suddenly,  I  thought  of  asking 
where  his  home  was. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Where  do  you  live?  where  do  you  take  your  meals  and 
sleep?" 

"Why,  as  to  that,  I  have  not  much  time  for  eating  and 
drinking.  Generally,  I  eat  my  dinner  as  I  go  along  the  road, 
where  there's  lots  of  blackberries  by  way  of  pudding — which 
is  grand!  Supper,  when  I  do  get  it,  I  like  best  on  this  bark- 
heap,  after  the  men  are  away,  and  the  tan-yard's  clear.  Your 
father  lets  me  stay." 

"And  where  is  your  lodging,  then?    Where  do  you  sleep?" 

He  hesitated — colored  a  little.  "To  tell  the  truth — any- 
where I  can.  Generally  here." 

"What,  out-of-doors?" 

"Just  so." 

I. was  much  shocked.    To  sleep  out-of-doors  seemed  to  me 


36  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

the  very  lowest  ebb  of  human  misery;  so  degrading,  too— like 
a  common  tramp  or  vagabond,  instead  of  a  decent  lad. 

"John — how  can  you — why  do  you — do  such  a  thing?" 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  he,  sitting  down  beside  me  in  a  dogged 
way,  as  if  he  had  read  my  thoughts,  guessed  at  my  suspi- 
cions, and  was  determined  to  show  that  he  feared  neither — 
that  he  would  use  his  own  judgment,  and  follow  his  own  will 
in  spite  of  anybody.  "Look  here.  I  get  three  shillings  a 
week,  which  is  about  fivepence  a  day;  out  of  that  I  eat  three- 
pence— I'm  a  big,  growing  lad,  and  it's  hard  to  be  hungry. 
There's  twopence  left  to  pay  for  lodging.  I  tried  it  once — 

twice — at  the  decentest  place  I  could  find,  but "  here  an 

expression  of  intolerable  disgust  came  over  the  boy's  face — 
"I  don't  intend  to  try  that  again.  I  was  never  used  to  it. 
Better  keep  my  own  company  and  the  open  air.  Now,  you 
see." 

"Oh,  John!" 

"Nay — there's  no  need  to  be  sorry.  You  don't  know  how 
comfortable  it  is  to  sleep  out-of-doors;  and  so  nice  to  wake  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  and  see  the  stars  shining  over  vour 
head." 

"But  isn't  it  very  cold?" 

"No — not  often.  I  scoop  out  a  snug  little  nest  in  the  bark, 
and  curl  up  in  it  like  a  dormouse,  wrapped  in  this  rug,  which 
one  of  the  men  gave  me.  Besides,  every  morning  early  I  take 
a  plunge  and  a  swim  in  the  stream,  and  that  makes  me  warm 
all  day." 

I  shivered — I  Who  feared  the  touch  of  cold  water.  Yet 
there,  with  all  his  hardships,  he  stood  before  me,  the  model  of 
healthy  boyhood.  Alas!  I  envied  him. 

But" this  trying  life,  which  he  made  so  light  of,  could  not 
go  on.  "What  shall  you  do  when  winter  comes?" 

John  looked  grave.  "I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  shall 
manage  somehow — like  the  sparrows,"  he  answered,  perceiv- 
ing not  how  opposite  his  illustration  was.  For  truly  he 
seemed  as  destitute  as  the  birds  of  the  air,  whom  One  feedeth 
when  they  cry  to  Him. 

My  question  had  evidently  made  him  thoughtful;  'he  re- 
mained silent  a  good  while. 

At  last  I  said — "John,  do  you  remember  the  woman  who 
spoke  so  sharply  to  you  in  the  alley  that  day?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  37 

"Yes.  I  shall  never  forget  anything  which  happened  that 
day/'  he  answered  softly. 

"She  was  my  nurse  once.  She  is  not  such  a  bad  woman, 
though  trouble  has  sharpened  her  temper.  Her  biggest  boy, 
Bill,  who  is  gone  off  for  a  soldier,  used  to  drive  vour  cart,  you 
know." 

"Yes?"  said  John,  interrogatively;  for  I  was  slow  in  .put- 
ting forth  my  plans — that  is,  as  much  of  them  as  it  was  need- 
ful he  should  know. 

"Sally  is  poor — not  so  very  poor,  though. — Your  twopence 
a  night  would  help  her;  and  I  dare  say,  if  you'll  let  me  speak 
to  her,  you  might  have  Bill's  attic  all  to  yourself.  She  has 
but  one  other  lad  at  home;  it's  worth  trying  for." 

"It  is,  indeed.  Y"ou  are  very  kind,  Phineas."  He  said  no 
words  than  these — but  their  tone  spoke  volumes. 

I  got  into  my  little  carriage  again,  for  I  was  most  anxious 
not  to  lose  a  day  in  this  matter.  I  persuaded  John  to  go  at 
once  with  me  to  Sally  Watkins.  My  father  was  not  to  be 
seen,  but  I  ventured  to  leave  word  for  him  that  I  was  gone 
home,  and  had  taken  John  Halifax  with  me;  it  was  astonish- 
ing how  bold  I  felt  myself  growing,  now  that  there  was 
another  besides  myself  to  think  and  act  for. 

We  reached  Widow  Watkins'  door.  It  was  a  poor  place- — 
poorer  than  I  had  imagined;  but  I  remembered  what  agonies 
of  cleanliness  had  been  inflicted  on  me  in  nursery  days,  and 
took  hope  for  John. 

Sally  sat  in  her  kitchen,  tidy  and  subdued,  mending  an  old 
jacket  that  had  once  been  Bill's,  until  being  supplanted  by  the 
grand  red  coat,  it  descended  upon  Jem,  the  second  lad.  But 
Bill  still  engrossed  the  poor  mother's  heart — she  could  do 
nothing  but  weep  over  him,  and  curse  "Bonyparty."  Her  mind 
was  so  full  of  this  that  she  apparently  failed  to  recognize  in 
the  decent  young  workman,  John  Halifax,  the  half-starved 
lad  she  had  belabored  with  her  tongue  in  the  alley.  She  con- 
sented at  once  to  his  lodging  with  her — though  she  looked  up 
with  an  odd  stare  when  I  said  he  was  "a  friend"  of  mine. 

So  we  settled  our  business,  first  all  together,  then  Sally  and 
I  alone,  while  John  went  up  to  look  at  his  room.  I  knew  I 
could  trust  Sally,  whom  I  was  glad  enough  to  help,  poor  wo- 
man! She  promised  to  make  him  extra  comfortable,  and  keep 
my.  secret  too.  When  John  came  down  she  was  quite  civil 
to  him — even  friendly. 


38  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

She  said  it  would  really  be  a  comfort  to  her  that  another 
fine,  strapping  lad  should  sleep  in  Bill's  bed,  and  be  coming  in 
and  out  of  her  house  just  like  her  poor  dear  boy. 

I  felt  rather  doubtful  of  the  resemblance,  and,  indeed,  half 
angry,  but  John  only  smiled. 

"And  if,  maybe,  he'd  do  a  hand's  turn  now  an  then  about 
the  kitchen — I  s'pose  he  bean't  above  it?" 

"Not  a  bit!"  said  John  Halifax,  pleasantly. 

Before  we  left,  I  wanted  to  see  his  room;  he  earned  me  up, 
and  we  both  sat  down  on  the  bed  that  had  been  poor  Bill's. 
It  was  nothing  to  boast  of,  being  a  mere  sacking  stuffed  with 
hay — a  blanket  below,  and  another  at  top;  I  had  to  beg  from 
Jael  the  only  pair  of  sheets  John  owned  for  a  long  time.  The 
attic  was  very  low  and  small,  hardly  big  enough  "to  whip  a 
cat  round,"  or  even  a  kitten — yet  John  gazed  about  it  with  an 
air  of  proud  possession. 

"I  declare  I  shall  be  as  happy  as  a  king.  Only  look  out  of 
the  window." 

Ay,  the  window  was  the  grand  advantage;  out  of  it  one 
could  crawl  on  to  the  roof,  and  from  the  roof  was  the  finest 
view  in  all  Norton  Bury.  On  one  side,  the  town,  the  Abbey, 
and  beyond  it  a  wide  stretch  of  meadow  and  woodland  as  far 
as  you  could  see;  on  the  other,  the  broad  Ham,  the  glittering 
curve  of  Severn,  and  the  distant  country,  sloping  up  into  "the 
blue  hills  far  away."  A  picture  which,  in  its  incessant  va- 
riety, its  quiet  beauty,  and  its  inexpressibly  soothing  charm, 
was  likely  to  make  the  simple,  every-day  act  of  "looking  out 
o'  window,"  unconsciously  influence  the  mind  as  much  as  a 
world  of  books. 

"Do  you  like  your  'castle,'  John?"  said  I,  when  I  had 
silently  watched  his  beaming  face;  "will  it  suit  you?" 

"I  rather  think  it  will!"  he  cried  in  hearty  delight.  And 
my  heart  likewise  was  very  glad. 

Dear  little  attic  room!  close  against  the  sky — so  close  that 
many  a  time  the  rain  came  pattering  in,  or  the  sun  beating 
down  upon  the  roof  made  it  like  a  furnace,  or  the  snow  on  the 
leads  drifted  so  high  as  to  obscure  the  window — yet  how 
merry,  how  happy  we  have  been  there!  How  often  have  we 
both  looked  back  upon  it  in  after  days  I 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Winter  came  early  and  sudden  that  year. 

It  was  to  me  a  long,  dreary  season,  worse  even  than  my 
winters  inevitably  were.  I  never  stirred  from  my  room,  and 
never  saw  anybody  but  my  father,  Dr.  Jessop,  and  Jael.  At 
last  I  took  courage  to  say  to  the  former  that  I  wished  he 
would  send  John  Halifax  up  some  day. 

"What  dost  thee  want  the  lad  for?" 

"Only  to  see  him." 

"Pshaw!  a  lad  out  o'  the  tan-yard  is  not  fit  company  for 
thee.  Let  him  alone;  he'll  do  well  enough,  if  thee  doesn't  try 
to  lift  him  out  of  his  place." 

Lift  John  Halifax  out  of  his  "place!"  I  agreed  with  my 
father  that  that  was  impossible;  but  then  we  evidently  dif- 
fered widely  in  our  definition  of  what  the  "place"  might  be. 
So  afraid  of  doing  him  harm,  and  feeling  how  much  his  future 
depended  on  his  favor  with  his  master,  I  did  not  discuss  the 
matter.  Only  at  every  possible  opportunity — and  they  were 
rare — I  managed  to  send  John  a  little  note,  written  carefully 
in  printed  letters,  for  I  knew  he  could  read  that;  also  a  book 
or  two,  out  of  which  he  might  teach  himself  a  little  more. 

Then  I  waited  eagerly  but  patiently,  until  spring  came,  when 
without  ranking  any  more  fruitless  efforts  I  should  be  sure  to 
see  him.  I  kne^v  enough  of  himself,  and  was  too  jealous  over 
his  dignity,  to  wish  either  to  force  him  by  entreaties,  or  bring 
him  by  stratagem,  into  a  house  where  he  was  not  welcome, 
even  though  it  were  the  house  of  my  own  father. 

One  February  day,  when  the  frost  had  at  last  broken  up, 
and  soft,  plentiful  rain  had  half  melted  the  great  snowdrifts 
which,  Jael  told  me,  lay  about  the  country  everywhere — I 
thought  I  would  just  put  my  head  out-of-doors  to  see  how 
long  the  blessed  spirit  would  be  in  coming.  So  I  crawled 
down  into  the  parlor,  and  out  of  the  parlor  into  the  garden; 
Jael  scolding,  my  father  roughly  encouraging.  My  poor  fa- 
ther! he  always  had  the  belief  that  people  need  not  be  ill  unless 
they  chose,  and  that  I  could  do  a  great  deal  if  I  would. 

I  felt  very  strong  to-day.  It  was  delicious  to  see  again  the 
green  grass  which  had  been  hidden  for  weeks;  delicious  to 


40  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

walk  up  and  down  in  the  sunshine,  under  the  shelter  of  the 
yew-hedge.  I  amused  myself  by  watching  a  pale  line  of  snow- 
drops, which  had  come  up  one  by  one,  like  prisoner?  of  war 
to  their  execution. 

But  the  next  moment  I  felt  ashamed  of  the  heartless  simile, 
for  it  reminded  me  of  poor  Bill  Watkins,  who,  taken  after  the 
battle  of  Mentz,  last  December,  had  been  shot  by  the  French 
as  a  spy.  Poor,  rosy,  burly  Bill!  better  had  he  still  been  in- 
gloriously  driving  our  cart  of  skins. 

"Have  you  been  to  see  Sally  lately?"  said  I  to  Jael,  who 
was  cutting  winter  cabbages  hard  by;  "is  she  getting  over  her 
trouble?" 

"She  bean't  rich,  to  afford  fretting.  There's  Jem  and 
three  little  'uns  yet  to  feed,  to  say  naught  of  another  big  lad 
as  lives  there,  and  eats  a  deal  more  than  he  pays,  I'm  sure." 

1  took  the  insinuation  quietly,  for  I  knew  that  my  father 
had  lately  raised  John's  wages,  and  he  his  rent  to  Sally. 
This,  together  with  a  few  other  facts  which  lay  between  Sally 
and  me,  made  me  quite  easy  in  the  mind  as  to  his  being  no 
burden,  but  rather  a  help  to  the  widow — so  I  let  Jael  have  her 
say;  it  did  no  harm  to  me  or  anybody. 

"What  bold  little  things  snow-drops  are — stop,  Jael,  you 
are  setting  your  foot  on  them." 

But  I  was  too  late;  she  had  crushed  them  under  the  high- 
heeled  shoe.  She  was  even  near  pulling  me  down,  as  she 
stepped  back  in  great  hurry  and  consternation. 

"Look  at  that  young  gentleman  coming  down  the  garden; 
and  here  I  be  in  my  dirty  gown,  and  my  apron  full  o'  cab- 
bages." 

And  she  dropped  the  vegetables  all  over  the  path,  as  the 
"gentleman,"  came  toward  us. 

I  smiled — for,  in  spite  of  his  transformation,  I,  at  least, 
had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  John  Halifax. 

He  had  on  new  clothes — let  me  give  the  credit  due  to  that 
wonderful  civilizer,  the  tailor — clothes  neat,  decent,  and 
plain,  such  as  any  'prentice  lad  might  wear.  They  fitted  well 
his  figure,  which  had  increased  both  in  height,  compactness, 
and  grace.  Round  his  neck  was  a  coarse  but  white  shirt  frill: 
and  over  it  fell,  carefully  arranged,  the  bright  curls  of  his 
bonny  hair.  Easily  might  Jael  or  any  one  else  have  "mis- 
taken" him,  as  she  cuttingly  said,  for  a  young  gentleman. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  41 

_ 

She  looked  very  indignant  though.,  when  she  found  out 
the  aforesaid  "mistake." 

"What  may  be  thy  business  here?"  she  said,  roughly. 

"Abel  Fletcher  sent  me  on  a  message." 

"Out  with  it,  then — don't  be  stopping  with  Phineas  here. 
Thee  bean't  company  for  him,  and  his  father  don't  choose  it." 

"Jael!"  I  cried,  indignantly.  John  never  spoke,  but  his 
cheek  burned  furiously.  I  took  his  hand,  and  told  him  how 
ulad  I  was  to  see  him — but,  for  a  minute,  I  doubt  if  he  heard 
me. 

"Abel  Fletcher  sent  me  here,"  he  repeated,  in  a  well-con- 
trolled voice,  "that  I  might  go  out  with  Phineas;  if  he  objects 
to  my  company,  it's  easy  to  say  so." 

And  he  turned  to  me.  I  think  he  must  have  been  satisfied 
then. 

Jael  retired  discomfited,  and  in  her  wrath  again  dropped 
half  of  her  cabbages.  John  picked  them  up  and  restored 
them;  but  got  for  thanks  only  a  parting  thrust. 

"Thee  art  mighty  civil  in  thy  new  clothes.  Be  off,  and  be 
back  again  sharp;  and  I  say,  don't  thee  be  leaving  the  cart  o' 
skins  again  under  the  parlor  windows." 

"I  don't  drive  the  cart  now,"  was  all  he  replied. 

"Not  drive  the  cart?"  I  asked,  eagerly,  when  Jael  had  dis- 
appeared, for  I  was  afraid  some  ill  chance  had  happened. 

"Only,  that  this  winter  I've  managed  to  teach  myself  to  read 
and  add  up,  out  of  your  books,  you  know;  and  your  father 
found  it  out,  and  he  says  I  shall  go  round  collecting  money 
instead  of  skins,  and  it's  much  better  wages,  and — I  like  it 
better,  that's  all." 

But,  little  as  he  said,  his  whole  face  beamed  with  pride 
and  pleasure.  It  was,  in  truth,  a  great  step  forward. 

"He  must  trust  you  very  much,  John,"  said  I,  at  last, 
knowing  how  exceedingly  particular  my  father  was  in  his  col- 
lectors. 

"That's  it;  that's  what  pleases  me  so.  He  is  very  good  to 
me,  Phineas,  and  he  gave  me  a  special  holiday,  that  I  might 
go  out  with  you.  Isn't  that  grand?" 

"Grand,  indeed.  What  fun  we'll  have!  I  almost  think  I 
could  take  a  walk  myself." 

•For  the  lad's  company  invariably  gave  me  new  life,  and 
strength,  and  hope.  The  very  sight  of  him  was  as  good  as 
the  coming  oi  spring. 


42  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Where  shall  we  go?"  said  he,  when  we  were  fairly  off,  and 
he  was  guiding  my  carriage  down  Norton  Bury  streets. 

"I  think  to  the  Mythe."  The  Mythe  was  a  little  hill 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  breezy  and  fresh,  where  'Squire 
Brithwood  had  built  himself  a  fine  house,  ten  years  ago. 

"Ay,  that  will  do;  and  as  we  go,  you  will  see  the  floods  out 
— a  wonderful  sight,  isn't  it?  The  river  is  rising  still,  I 
hear;  at  the  tan-yard  they  are  busy  making  a  dam  against  it. 
How  high  are  the  floods  here,  generally,  Phineas?"  » 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  remember.  But  don't  look  so  serious. 
Let  us  enjoy  ourselves." 

And  I  did  enjoy,  intensely,  that  pleasant  stroll.  The  mere 
sunshine  was  delicious;  delicious,  too,  to  pause  on  the  bridge 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  and  feel  the  breeze  brought  in 
by  the  rising  waters,  and  hear  the  loud  sound  of  them  as  they 
poured  in  a  cataract  over  the  flood-gates  hard  by. 

"Your  lazy,  muddy  Avon  looks  splendid  now.  What 
masses  of  white  foam  it  makes,  and  what  wreaths  of  spray; 
and  see!  ever  so  much  of  the  Ham  is  under  water.  How  it 
sparkles  in  the  sun." 

"John,  you  like  looking  at  anything  pretty." 

"Ah!  don't  I!"  cried  he,  with  his  whole  heart.  My  heart 
leaped  too,  to  see  him  so  happy. 

"You  can't  think  how  fine  this  is  from  my  window;  I  have 
watched  it  for  a  week.  Every  morning  the  water  seems  to 
have  made  itself  a  fresh  channel.  Look  at  that  one,  by  the 
willow-tree — how  savagely  it  pours!" 

"Oh,  we  at  Norton  Bury  are  used  to  floods." 

"Are  they  ever  very  serious?" 

"Have  been — but  not  in  my  time.  Now,  John,  tell  me 
what  you  have  been  doing  all  winter." 

It  was  a  brief  and  simple  chronicle — of  hard  work  all  day 
over,  and  from  the  Monday  to  the  Saturday — too  hard  work 
to  do  anything  of  nights,  save  to  drop  into  the  sound,  dream- 
less sleep  of  youth  and  labor. 

"But  how  did  vou  teach  yourself  to  read  and  add  up, 
then?" 

"Generally,  at  odd  minutes  going  along  the  road.  It's 
astonishing  what  a  lot  of  odd  minutes  one  can  catch  during 
the  day,  if  one  really  sets  about  it.  And  then  I  had  Sunday 
afternoons  besides — I  did  not  think  it  wrong " 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  43 

"No,"  said  I,  decisively.  "What  books  have  you  got 
through?" 

"All  you  sent — Pilgrim's  Progress,  Robinson  Crusoe  and 
the  Arabian  Nights.  That's  fine,  isn't  it?"  and  his  eyes 
sparkled. 

"Any  more?" 

"Also  the  one  you  gave  me  Christmas.  I  have  read  it  a 
good  deal." 

I  liked  the  tone  of  quiet  reverence  in  which  he  spoke;  I 
liked  to  hear  him  own,  nor  be  ashamed  to  awn — that  he  read 
"a  good  deal"  in  that  rare  book  for  a  boy  to  read — the  Bible. 

But  on  this  subject  I  did  not  ask  him  any  more  questions; 
indeed,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  seems  still,  that  no  more  were 
needed. 

"And  you  can  read  quite  easily  now,  John?" 

"Pretty  well,  considering."  Then,  turning  suddenly  to  me: 
"You  read  a  great  deal,  don't  you?  I  overheard  your  father 
say  you  were  very  clever.  How  much  do  you  know?" 

"Oh — nonsense!"  But  he  pressed  me  and  I  told  him.  The 
list  was  short  enough;  I  almost  wished  it  were  shorter,  when 
I  saw  John's  face. 

"For  me — I  can  only  just  read,  and  I  shall  be  fifteen 
directly!" 

The  accent  of  shame,  despondency,  even  despair,  went  to 
my  very  heart. 

"Don't  mind,"  I  said,  laying  my  feeble,  useless  hand  upon 
that  which  guided  me  on,  so  steady  and  so  strong;  "how  could 
you  have  had  time,  working  as  hard  as  you  do  ?" 

"But  I  ought  to  learn;  I  must  learn." 

"You  shall.  It's  little  I  can  teach;  but,  if  you  like,  I'll 
teach  you  all  I  know." 

"0,  Phineas!" 

One  flash  of  those  bright,  moist  eyes,  and  he  walked  hastily 
across  the  road.  Thence  he  came  back  in  a  minute  or  two, 
armed  with  the  tallest,  straightest  of  brier-rose  shoots. 

"You  like  a  rose-switch,  don't  you?  I  do.  Nay,  stop  till 
I've  cut  off  the  thorns."  And  he  walked  on  beside  me,  work- 
ing at  it  with  his  knife  in  silence. 

•  I  was  silent,  too,  but  I  stole  a  glance  at  his  mouth,  as  seen 
in  profile.  I  could  almost  always  guess  at  his  thoughts  by 
that  mouth,  so  flexible,  sensitive,  and  at  time$  so  infinitely 


44  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

sweet.  It  wore  that  expression  now.  I  was  satisfied,  for  I 
knew  the  lad  was  happy. 

We  reached  the  Mythe.  "David,"  I  said  (I  had  got  into  a 
habit  of  calling  him  "David;"  and  now  he  had  read  a  certain 
history  in  that  Book,  I  supposed  he  had  guessed  why,  for  he 
Hked  the  name),  "I  don't  think  I  can  go  any  farther  up  the 
hill." 

"Oh!  but  you  shall!  I'll  push  behind;  and  when  we  come 
to  the  stile,  I'll  carry  you.  It's  lovely  on  the  top  of  the  My  the 
—look  at  the  sunset.  You  cannot  have  seen  a  sunset  for  ever 
so  long." 

No — that  was  true.  I  let  John  do  as  he  would  with  me — 
he  who  brought  into  my  pale  life  the  only  brightness  it  had 
ever  known. 

Ere  long  we  stood  on  the  top  of  the  steep  mound.  I  know 
not  if  it  be  a  natural  hill,  or  one  of  those  old  Roman  or  Brit- 
ish remains,  plentiful  enough  hereabouts,  but  it  was  always 
called  the  Mythe.  Close  below  it",  at  the  foot  of  a  precipitous 
slope,  ran  the  Severn,  there  broad  and  deep  enough,  and  grad- 
uallygrowingbroader  and  deeper  as  it  flowed  on,  through  a  wide 
plain  of  level  country,  toward  the  line  of  hills  that  bounded 
the  horizon.  Severn  looked  beautiful  here;  neither  grand  nor 
striking,  but  certainly  beautiful;  a  calm,  gracious,  generous 
river,  bearing  strength  in  its  tide  and  plenty  in  its  bosom, 
rolling  on  through  the  land  slowly  and  surely,  like  a  good 
man's  life,  and  fertilizing  wherever  it  flows. 

"Do  you  like  Severn  still,  John?" 

"I  love  it." 

I  wondered  if  his  thoughts  had  been  anything  like  mine. 

"What  is  that?"  he  cried,  suddenly,  pointing  to  a  new 
sight,  which  even  I  had  not  often  seen  on  our  river.  It  was  a 
mass  of  water,  three  or  four  feet  high,  which  came  surging 
along  the  mid-stream,  upright  as  a  wall. 

"It  is  the  eger;  I've  often  seen  it  on  Severn,  where  the 
swift  seaward  current  meets  the  spring-tide.  Look  what  a 
crest  of  foam  it  has,  like  a  wild-boar's  mane.  We  often  call 
it  the  river-boar." 

"But  it's  only  a  big  wave." 

"Big  enough  to  swamp  a  boat,  though." 

And  while  I  spoke  I  saw,  to  my  horror,  that  there  actually 
was  a  boat,  with  two  men  in  it,  trying  to  get  out  of  the  way 
of  the  eger. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  45 

"They  never  can  I  they'll  assuredly  be  drowned!  Oh, 
John!" 

But  he  had  already  slipped  from  my  side  and  swung  him- 
self by  furze-bushes  and  grass  down  the  steep  slope  to  the  wa- 
ter's edge. 

It  was  a  breathless  moment.  The  eger  traveled  slowly  in 
its  passage,  changing  the  smooth,  sparkling  river  to  a  whirl 
of  conflicting  currents,  in  which  no  boat  could  live — least  of 
all,  that  light  pleasure-boat,  with  its  toppling  sail.  In  it  was 
a  youth  I  knew  by  sight,  Mr.  Brithwood,  of  the  Mythe  House, 
and  another  gentleman. 

They  both  pulled  hard — they  got  out  of  the  mid-stream, 
but  not  close  enough  to  land,  and  already  there  was  but  two 
oars'  length  between  them  and  the  "boar." 

"Swim  for  it!"  I  heard  one  cry  to  the  other,  but  swimming 
would  not  have  saved  them. 

"Hold  there!"  shouted  John  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "throw 
that  rope  out,  and  I  will  pull  you  in!" 

It  was  a  hard  tug;  I  shuddered  to  see  him  wade,  knee- 
deep,  in  the  stream — but  he  succeeded.  Both  gentlemen 
leaped  on  shore.  The  younger  tried  desperately  to  save  his 
boat,  but  it  was  too  late.  Already  the  "waterboar"  had 
clutched  it — the  rope  broke  like  a  gossamer-thread — the  trim, 
white  sail  was  dragged  down — rose  up  once,  broken  and  torn, 
like  a  butterfly  caught  in  a  mill-stream — then  disappeared. 

"So  it's  all  over  with  her,  j)oor  thing!" 

"Who  cares?  We  might  have  lost  our  lives,"  sharply  said 
the  other,  an  older  and  sickly-looking  gentleman,  dressed  in 
mourning,  to  whom  life  did  not  seem  a  particularly  pleasant 
thing,  though  he  appeared  to  value  it  so  highly. 

They  both  scrambled  up  the  Mythe  without  noticing  John 
Halifax;  then  the  elder  turned. 

"But  who  pulled  us  ashore?  Was  it  you,  my  young 
friend?" 

John  Halifax,  emptying  his  soaked  boots,  answered,  "I 
suppose  so." 

"Indeed,  we  owe  you  much." 

"Not  more  than  a  crown  will  pay,"  said  young  Brithwood, 
gruffly;  "I  know  him,  Cousin  March.  He  works  in  Fletcher 
the  Quaker's  tan -yard!" 

"Nonsense!"  cried  Mr.  March,  who  had  stood  looking  at 
the  boy  with  a  kindly,  even  half -sad  air.  "Impossible, 


46  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Young  man,  will  you  tell  me  to  whom  I  am  so  much  obliged?" 

fCM.y  name  is  John  Halifax." 

"Yes;  but  what  are  you?" 

"What  he  said.  Mr.  Brithwood  knows  me  well  enough. 
I  work  in  the  tan-yard." 

"Oh!"  Mr.  March  turned  away  with  a  resumption  of  dig- 
nity, though  evidently  both  surprised  and  disappointed. 
Young  Brithwood  laughed. 

"I  told  you  so,  cousin.  Hey,  lad!"  eying  John  over, 
"you've  been  out  at  grass,  and  changed  your  coat  for  the 
better;  but  you're  certainly  the  same  lad  that  my  curricle 
nearly  ran  over  one  day;  you  were  driving  a  cart  of  skins — 
pah!  I  remember." 

"So  do  I,"  said  John,  fiercely;  but  when  the  youth's  in- 
solent laughter  broke  out  again,  he  controlled  himself.  The 
laughter  ceased. 

"Well,  you've  done  me  a  good  turn  for  an  ill  one,  young 
— what's  your  name,  so  here's  a  guinea  for  you."  He  threw 
it  toward  him;  it  fell  on  the  ground,  and  lay  there. 

"Nay,  nay,  Richard,"  expostulated  the  sickly  gentleman, 
who,  after  all,  was  a  gentleman.  He  stood,  apparently  strug- 
gling with  conflicting  intentions,  and  not  very  easy  in  his 
mind.  "My  good  fellow,"  he  said,  at  last,  in  a  constrained 
voice,  "I  won't  forget  your  bravery.  If  I  could  do  anything . 

for  you — and,  meanwhile,  if  a  trifle  like  this "  and  he 

slipped  something  into  John's  hand. 

John  returned  it  with  a  bow,  merely  saying,  "That  he 
would  rather  not  take  any  money." 

The  gentleman  looked  very  much  astonished.  There  was 
a  little  more  of  persistence  on  one  side  and  resistence  on  the 
other;  and  then  Mr.  March  put  the  guinea  irresolutely  back 
into  his  pocket,  looking  the  while  lingeringly  at  the  boy — 
at  his  tall  figure,  and  flushed,  proud  face. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Fifteen,  nearly." 

"Ah!"  it  was  almost  a  sigh.  He  turned  away,  and  turned 
back  again.  My  name  is  March — Henry  March;  if  you 
should  ever " 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Good-day." 

"Good-day."  I  fancied  he  was  half-inclined  to  shake 
hands — bui  John  did  not,  or  would  not,  see  it.  Mr.  March 
walked  on,  following  young  Brithwood;  but  at  the  stile  he 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  47 

turned  round  once  more  and  glanced  at  John.  Then  they 
disappeared. 

"I'm  glad  they  are  gone;  now  we  can  be  comfortable."  He 
flung  himself  down,  wrung  out  his  wet  stockings,  laughed  at 
me  for  being  so  afraid  he  would  take  cold,  and  so  angry  at 
young  Brithwood's  insults.  I  sat  wrapped  in  my  cloak,  and 
watched  him  making  idle  circles  in  the  sandy  path  with  the 
rose-switch  he  had  cut. 

A  thought  struck  me.  "John,  hand  me  the  stick,  and  I'll 
give  you  your  first  writing  lesson." 

So  there,  on  the  smooth  gravel,  and  with  the  rose-stem  for  a 
pen,  I  taught  him  how  to  form  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  and 
join  them  together.  He  learned  them  very  quickly — so 
quickly  that  in  a  little  while  the  simple  copybook  that  Mother 
Earth  obliged  us  with  was  covered  in  all  directions  with 
"J,  0,  H,  N— John." 

"Bravo!"  he  cried,  as  we  turned  homeward,  he  flourishing 
his  gigantic  pen,  which  had  done  such  good  service,  "bravo,  I 
have  gained  something  to-day." 

Crossing  the  bridge  over  the  Avon,  we  stood  once  more  to 
look  at  the  waters  that  were  "out."  They  had  risen  con- 
siderably, even  in  that  short  time,  and  were  now  pouring  in 
several  new  channels,  one  of  which  was  alongside  of  the  high- 
road; we  stopped  a  good  while,  watching  it.  The  current  was 
harmless  enough,  merely  flooding  a  part  of  the  Ham;  but  it 
awed  us  to  see  the  fierce  power  of  waters  let  loose.  An  old 
willow-tree  about  whose  roots  I  had  often  watched  the  king- 
cups growing,  was  now  in  the  center  of  a  stream  as  broad  as 
the  Avon  by  our  tan-yard,  and  thrice  as  rapid.  The  torrent 
rushed  round  it — impatient  of  the  divisions  its  great  roots 
caused — eager  to  undermine  and  tear  it  up.  Inevitably,  if 
the  flood  did  not  abate,  within  a  few  hours  more  there  would 
be  nothing  left  of  the  fine  old  tree. 

"I  don't  quite  like  this,"  said  John,  meditatively,  as  his 
quick  eye-  swept  down  the  course  of  the  river,  with  the  houses 
and  wharves  which  abutted  it,  all  along  one  bank.  "Did  you 
see  the  waters  thus  high  before?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  I  have;  nobody  minds  it  at  Norton  Bury;  it 
is  only  the  sudden  thaw,  my  father  says,  and  he  ought  to 
know,  for  he  has  had  plenty  of  experience,  the  tan-yard  being 
so  close  to  the  river." 

"I  was  thinking  of  that;  but  come,  it  is  getting  cold."    He 


48  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

took  me  safe  home,  and  we  parted  cordially — nay  affection- 
ately— at  my  own  door. 

"When  will  you  come  again,  David?" 

"When  your  father  sends  me." 

And  I  felt  that  he  felt  that  our  intercourse  was  always  to 
be  limited  to  this.  Nothing  clandestine,  nothing  obtrusive, 
was  possible,  even  for  friendship's  sake,  to  John  Halifax. 

My  father  came  in  late  that  evening;  he  looked  tired  and 
uneasy,  and  instead  of  going  to  bed,  though  it  was  after  nine 
o'clock,  sat  down  to  his  pipe  in  the  chimney-corner. 

"Is  the  river  rising  still,  father?  Will  it  do  any  harm  to 
the  tan-yard?" 

"What  dost  thee  know  about  the  tan-yard?" 

"Only,  John  Halifax  was  saying " 

"John  Halifax  had  better  hold  his  tongue." 

I  held  mine. 

My  father  puffed  away  in  silence  till  I  came  to  bid  him 
good-night.  I  think  the  sound  of  my  crutches  on  the  floor 
stirred  him  out  of  a  long  meditation,  in  which  his  ill-humor 
had  ebbed  away. 

"Where  didst  thee  go  out  to-day,  Phineas? — thee  and  the 
lad  I  sent." 

"To  the  Mythe;"  and  I  told  him  the  incident  that  had  hap- 
pened there.  He  listened  without  reply. 

"Wasn't  it  a  brave  thing  to  do,  father?" 

"Um!" — and  a  few  meditative  puffs.  "Phineas,  the  lad 
thee  hast  such  a  hankering  after  is  a  good  lad — a  very  decent 
lad — if  thee  doesn't  make  too  much  of  him.  Remember,  he 
is  but  my  servant;  thee'rt  my  son — my  only  son." 

Alas!  my  poor  father,  it  was  hard  enough  for  him  to  have 
such  an  "only  son"  as  I. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night — or  else  to  me,  lying  awake,  it 
seemed  so — there  was  a  knocking  at  our  hall-door.  I  slcpi. 
on  the  ground-flat,  in  a  little  room  opposite  the  parlor.  Ere 
I  could  well  collect  my  thoughts,  I  saw  my  father  pass,  fully 
dressed,  with  a  light  in  his  hand.  And,  man  of  peace  though 
lie  was,  I  was  very  sure  I  saw  in  the  other — something  which 
always  lay  near  his  strong-box,  at  his  bed's  head  at  night. 
Because,  ten  years  ago,  a  large  sum  had  been  stolen  from  him, 
and  the  burglar  had  gone  free  of  punishment.  The  law  re- 
fused to  receive  Abel  Fletcher's  testimony — he  was  "only  a 
Quaker." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  49 

The  knocking  grew  louder,  as  if  the  person  had  no  time  to 
hesitate  at  making  a  noise. 

"Who's  there?"  called  out  my  father;  and  at  the  answer  he 
opened  the  front-door,  first  shutting  mine. 

A  minute  afterward,  I  heard  some  one  in  my  room. 

"Phineas,  are  you  here?    Don't  be  frightened." 

I  was  not — as  soon  as  his  voice  reached  me,  John's  own 
familiar  voice.  "It's  something  about  the  tan-yard?" 

"Yes;  the  waters  are  rising,  and  I  have  come  to  fetch  your 
father;  he  may  save  a  good  deal  yet — I'm  ready,  sir' — in  an- 
swer to  a  loud  call.  "Now  Phineas,  you  lie  down  again — i\ie 
night's  bitter  cold.  Don't  stir — you'll  promise?  I'll  see  after 
your  father." 

They  went  out  of  the  house  together,  and  did  not  return 
the  whole  night. 

That  night?  February  5,  1795,  was  one  long  remembered  at 
Norton  Bury.  Bridges  were  destroyed,  boats  carried  away, 
houses  inundated,  or  sapped  at  their  foundations.  The  loss 
of  life  was  small,  but  that  of  property  was  very  great.  Six 
hours  did  the  work  of  ruin,  and  then  the  flood  began  to  turn. 

It  was  a  long  waiting  until  they  came  home — my  father  and 
John.  At  daybreak,  I  saw  them  standing  on  the  doorstep. 
A  blessed  sight! 

"0  father!  my  dear  father!"  and  I  drew  him  in,  holding 
fast  his  hands — faster  and  closer  than  I  had  done  since  I 
was  a  child.  He  did  not  repel  me. 

"Thee'rt  up  early,  and  it's  a  cold  morning  for  thee,  my  son. 
Go  back  to  the  fire." 

His  voice  was  gentle;  his  ruddy  countenance  pale;  two 
strange  things  in  Abel  Fletcher. 

"Father,  tell  me  what  has  befallen  thee?" 

"Nothing,  my  son,  save  that  the  Giver  of  all  worldly  goods 
has  seen  fit  to  take  back  a  portion  of  mine.  I,  like  many 
another  in  this  town,  am  poorer  by  some  thousands  than  when 
I  went  to  bed  last  night." 

He  sat  down.  I  knew  he  loved  his  money,  for  it  had  been 
hardly  earned.  I  had  not  thought  he  would  have  borne  its 
loss  so  quietly. 

"Father,  never  mind;  it  might  have  been  worse." 

"Of  a  surety.     I  should  have  lost  everything  I  had  in  the 


60  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

world — save  for — Where  is  the  lad?    What  art  thee  standing 
outside  for?     Come  in,  John,  and  shut  the  door." 

John  obeyed,  though  without  advancing.  He  was  cold  and 
wet.  I  wanted  him  to  sit  down  by  the  fireside. 

"Ay!  do,  lad,"  said  my  father,  kindly. 

John  came. 

1  stood  between  the  two — afraid  to  ask  what  they  had  un- 
dergone; but  sure,  from  the  old  man's  grave  face  and  the  lad's 
bright  one — flushed  all  over  with  that  excitement  of  danger 
so  delicious  to  the  young — that  the  peril  had  not  been  small. 

"Jael,"  cried  my  father,  rousing  himself,  "give  us  some 
breakfast,  the  lad  and  me — we  have  had  a  hard  night's  work 
together." 

Jael  brought  the  mug  of  ale  and  the  bread  and  cheese;  but 
either  did  not  or  could  not  notice  that  the  meal  had  been 
ordered  for  more  than  one. 

"Another  plate,"  said  my  father,  sharply. 

"The  lad  can  go  into  the  kitchen,  Abel  Fletcher;  his 
breakfast  is  waiting  there." 

My  father  winced — even  her  master  was  sometimes  rather 
afraid  of  Jael.  But  conscience  or  his  will  conquered. 

"Woman,  do  as  I  desire.  Bring  another  plate  and  another 
mug  of  ale." 

And  so,  to  Jael's  great  wrath,  and  to  my  great  joy,  John 
Halifax  was  bidden,  and  sat  down  to  the  same  board  as  his 
master.  The  fact  made  an  ineffaceable  impression  on  our 
household. 

After  breakfast,  as  we  sat  by  the  fire,  in  the  pale  haze  of  that 
February  morning,  my  father,  contrary  to  his  wont,  explained 
to  me  all  his  losses;  and  how,  but  for  the  timely  warning  he 
had  received,  the  flood  might  have  nearly  ruined  him. 

"So  it  was  well  John  came,"  I  said,  half  afraid  to  say  more. 

"Ay,  and  the  lad  has  been  useful,  too;  it  is  an  old  head  on 
young  shoulders." 

John  looked  very  proud  of  this  praise,  though  it  was 
grimly  given.  But  directly  after  it,  some  ill,  or  suspicious 
thought  seemed  to  come  into  Abel  Fletcher's  mind. 

"Lad,"  suddenly  turning  round  on  John  Halifax,  "thee 
told  me  thee  saw  the  river  rising,  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
What  was  thee  doing  then,  out  o'  thy  honest  bed  and  thy 
quiet  sleep,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night?" 

John  colored  violently;  the  quick  young  blood  was  always 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  61 

ready  enough  to  rise  in  his  face.  It  spoke  ill  for  him  with 
my  father. 

"Answer.  I  will  not  be  hard  upon  thee — to-night,  at 
least." 

"As  you  like,  Abel  Fletcher,"  answered  the  boy,  sturdily. 
"I  was  doing  no  harm.  I  was  in  the  tan-yard." 

"Thy  business  there?" 

"None  at  all.  I  was  with  the  men — they  were  watching 
and  had  a  candle;  and  I  wanted  to  sit  up  and  had  no  light." 

"What  didst  thee  want  to  sit  up  for?"  pursued  my  father 
keen  and  sharp  as  a  ferret  at  a  field-rat's  hole,  or  a  barrister 
hunting  a  witness  in  those  courts  of  law  that  were  never  used 
by,  though  often  used  against,  us  Quakers. 

John  hesitated,  and  again  his  painful,  falsely-accusing 
blushes  tried  him  sore.  "Sir,  I'll  tell  you;  it's  no  disgrace. 
Though  I  am  such  a  big  fellow,  I  can't  write;  and  your  son 
was  good  enough  to  try  and  teach  me.  I  was  afraid  of  for- 
getting the  letters;  so  I  tried  to  make  them  all  over  again, 
with  a  bit  of  chalk,  on  the  bark-shed  wall.  It  did  nobody 
any  harm  that  I  know  of." 

The  boy's  tone,  even  though  it  was  rather  quick  and  angry 
won  no  reproof.  At  last,  my  father  said,  gently  enough: 

"Is  that  all,  lad?" 

"Yes." 

Again  Abel  Fletcher  fell  into  a  brown  study.  We  two  lads 
talked  softly  to  each  other — afraid  to  interrupt.  He  smoked 
through  a  whole  pipe — his  great  and  almost  his  only  luxury, 
and  then  again  called  out: 

"John  Halifax." 

"I'm  here." 

"It's  time  thee  went  away  to  thy  work." 

"I'm  going  this  minute.  Good-by,  Phineas.  Good-day, 
sir;  is  there  anything  you  want  done?" 

He  stood  before  his  master,  cap  in  hand,  with  an  honest 
manliness  pleasant  to  see.  Any  master  might  have  been 
proud  of  such  a  servant — any  father  of  such  a  son.  My  poor 
father — no,  he  did  not  once  look  from  John  Halifax  to  me. 
He  would  not  have  owned  for  the  world  that  smothered  sigh, 
or  murmured  because  Heaven  had  kept  back  from  him — as, 
Heaven  knows  why,  it  often  does  from  us  all — the  one  desire 
of  the  heart. 


52  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"John  Halifax,  thee  hast  been  of  great  service  to  me  this 
night.  What  reward  shall  I  give  thee?" 

And  instinctively  his  hand  dived  down  into  his  pocket. 
John  turned  away. 

"Thank  you — Fd  rather  not.  It  is  quite  enough  reward 
that  I  have  been  useful  to  my  master,  and  that  he  acknowl- 
edges it." 

My  father  thought  a  minute,  and  then  offered  his  hand. 
"Thee'rt  in  the  right,  lad.  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  thee, 
and  I  will  not  forget  it/'* 

And  John — blushing  brightly  once  -more — went  away, 
looking  as  proud  as  an  emperor,  and  as  happy  as  a  poor  man 
with  a  bag  of  gold. 

"Is  there  nothing  thou  canst  think  of,  Phineas,  that  would 
pleasure  the  lad  ?"  said  my  father,  after  we  had  been  talking 
some  time — though  not  about  John. 

I  had  thought  of  something — something  I  had  long  de- 
sired, but  which  seemed  then  all  but  an  impossibility.  Even 
now,  it  was  with  some  doubt  and  hesitation  that  I  made  the 
suggestion  that  he  should  spend  every  Sunday  at  our  house. 

"Nonsense!  thou  know'st  naught  of  Norton  Bury  lads.  He 
would  not  care.  He  had  rather  lounge  about  all  First-day  at 
street-corners  with  his  acquaintances." 

"John  has  none,  father.  He  knows  nobody — cares  for  no- 
body— but  me.  Do  let  him  come." 

"We'll  see  about  it." 

My  father  never  broke  or  retracted  his  word.  So  after 
that,  John  Halifax  came  to  us  every  Sunday;  and  for  one 
day  of  the  week,  at  least,  was  received  in  his  master's  house- 
hold as  our  equal,  and  my  friend. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Summers  and  winters  slipped  by,  lazily  enough,  as  the 
years  seemed  always  to  crawl  round  at  Norton  Bury.  Ho\v 
things  went  in  the  outside  world,  I  little  knew  or  cared.  My 
father  lived  his  life,  mechanical  and  steady  as  clock-work,  and 
we  two,  John  Halifax  and  Phineas  Fletcher,  lived  our  lives — 
the  one  so  active  and  busy,  the  other  so  useless  and  dull. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  63 

Neither  of  us  counted  the  days,,  nor  looked  backward  or  for- 
ward. 

One  June  morning  I  woke  to  the  consciousness  that  I  was 
twenty  years  old,  and  that  John  Halifax  was — a  man;  the 
difference  between  us  being  precisely  as  I  have  expressed  it. 

Our  birthdays  fell  within  a  week  of  each  other,  and  it  was 
in  remembering  his — the  one  which  advanced  him  to  the  dig- 
nity of  eighteen — that  I  called  to  mind  my  own.  I  say,  "ad- 
vanced him  to  the  dignity" — but  in  truth  that  is  an  idle 
speech;  for  any  dignity  which  the  maturity  of  eighteen  may 
be  supposed  to  confer,  he  had  already  in  possession.  Man- 
hood had  come  to  him,  both  in  character  and  demeanor,  not 
as  it  comes  to  most  young  lads,  an  eagerly-desired  and  pre- 
sumptuously-asserted claim,  but  as  a  rightful  inheritance,  to 
be  received  humbly,  and  worn  simply  and  naturally.  So 
naturally  that  I  never  seemed  to  think  of  him  as  anything  but 
a  boy,  until  this  one  June  Sunday,  when,  as  before  stated,  1 
myself  became  twenty  years  old. 

I  was  talking  over  that  last  fact,  in  a  rather  dreamy  mood, 
as  he  and  I  sat  in  our  long-familiar  summer  seat,  the  clematis 
arbor  by  the  garden-wall. 

"It  seems  very  strange,  John,  but  so  it  is — I  am  actually 
twenty." 

"Well,  and  what  of  that?" 

I  sat  looking  down  into  the  river,  which  flowed  on,  as  my 
years  were  flowing,  monotonous,  dark,  and  slow;  as  they  must 
flow  on  forever.  John  asked  me  what  I  was  thinking  of. 

"Of  myself;  what  a  fine  specimen  of  the  noble  genus  homo 
I  am." 

I  spoke  bitterly,  but  John  knew  how  to  meet  that  mood. 
Very  patient  he  was,  with  it  and  with  every  ill  mood  of  mine. 
And  I  was  grateful,  with  that  deep  gratitude  we  feel  to  those 
who  bear  with  us,  and  forgive  us,  and  laugh  at  us,  and  correct 
us;  all  alike  for  love. 

"Self-investigation  is  good  on  birthdays.  Phineas,  here 
goes  for  a  catalogue  of  your  qualities,  internal  and  external." 

"John,  don't  be  foolish." 

"I  will,  if  I  like;  though  perhaps  not  quite  so  foolish  as 
some  other  people;  so  listen:  'Imprimis,'  as  saith  Shakes- 
peare— Imprimis,  height,  full  five  feet  four;  a  stature  histori- 
cally appertaining  to  great  men,  including  Alexander  of 
Macedon  and  the  First  Consul." 


84  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Oh!  oh!"  said  I,  reproachfully;  for  this  was  our  chief  bone 
of  contention — I  hating,  he  rather  admiring,  the  great  ogre 
of  the  day,  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 

"Imprimis,  of  a  slight,  delicate  person,  but  not  lame,  as 
once  was — " 

"No,  thank  God!" 

"Thin,  rather " 

"Very,  a  mere  skeleton!" 

"Face  elongated  and  pale " 

"Sallow,  John,  decidedly  sallow." 

"Be  it  so — sallow.  Big  eyes,  much  given,  to  observation, 
which  means  hard  staring.  Take  them  off  me,  Phineas,  or 
I'll  not  lie  on  the  grass  a  minute  longer.  Thank  you.  To 
return:  Imprimis,  and  finis  (I'm  grand  at  Latin  now,  you 
see) — long  hair,  which,  since  the  powder  tax,  has  resumed  its 
original  blackness,  and  is — any  young  damsel  would  say,  only 
we  count  not  a  single  one  among  our  acquaintance — exceed- 
ingly bewitching." 

I  smiled,  feeling  myself  color  a  little  too,  weak  invalid  as  I 
was.  I  was,  nevertheless,  twenty  years  old;  and  although 
Jael  and  Sally  were  the  only  specimens  of  the  other  sex 
which  had  risen  on  my  horizon,  yet  once  or  twice,  since  I  had 
read  Shakespeare,  I  had  had  a  boy's  lovely  dreams  of  the 
divinity  of  womanhood.  They  began,  and  ended — mere 
dreams.  Soon  dawned  the  bare,  hard  truth  that  my  character 
was  too  feeble  and  womanish  to  be  likely  to  win  any  woman's 
reverence  or  love.  Or,  even  had  this  been  possible,  one 
sickly  as  I  was,  stricken  with  hereditary  disease,  ought  never 
seek  to  perpetuate  it  by  marriage.  I  therefore  put  from  me, 
at  once  and  forever,  every  feeling  of  that  kind;  and  during 
my  whole  life — I  thank  God! — have  never  faltered  in  my  reso- 
lution. Friendship  was  given  me  for  love — duty  for  happi- 
ness. So  best,  and  I  was  satisfied. 

This  conviction,  and  the  struggle  succeeding  it — for, 
though  brief,  it  was  but  natural  that  it  should  have  been  a 
hard  struggle — was  the  only  secret  that  I  had  kept  from 
John.  It  had  happened  some  months  now,  and  was  quite 
over  and  gone,  so  that  I  could  smile  at  his  fun,  and  shake  at 
him  my  "bewitching"  black  locks,  calling  him  a  foolish  boy. 
And  while  I  said  it,  the  notion  slowly  dawning  during  the  long 
gaze  he  had  complained  of,  forced  itself  upon  me  clear  as 
daylight,  that  he  was  not  a  "boy"  any  longer. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  65 

"Xow  let  me  turn  the  tables.     How  old  are  you,  John?" 

"You  know.     Eighteen  next  week." 

"And  how  tall?" 

"Five  feet  eleven  inches  and  a  half."  And  rising,  he  ex- 
hibited to  its  full  advantage  that  very  creditable  altitude, 
more  tall  perhaps  than  graceful  at  present;  since,  like  most 
youth?.,  he  did  not  as  yet  quite  know  what  to  do  with  his  legs 
and  arms.  But  he  was 

I  cannot  describe  what  he  was.  I  could  not  then.  I  only 
remember  that  when  I  looked  at  him,  and  began  jocularly 
"Imprimis,"  my  heart  came  up  into  my  throat  and  choked 
me. 

It  was  almost  with  sadness  that  I  said,  "Ah!  David,  you  are 
quite  a  young  man  now." 

He  smiled,  of  course  only  with  pleasure,  looking  forward 
to  the  new  world  into  which  he  was  going  forth;  the  world 
into  which,  as  I  knew  well,  I  could  never  follow  him. 

"I  am  glad  I  look  rather  old  for  my  years,"  said  he,  when, 
after  a  pause,  he  had  again  flung  himself  down  on  the  grass. 
"It  tells  well  in  the  tan-yard.  People  would  be  slow  to  trust 
a  clerk  who  looked  a  mere  boy.  Still,  your  father  trusts  me." 

"He  does,  indeed.  You  need  never  have  any  doubt  of 
that.  It  was  only  yesterday  he  said  to  me  that  now  he  was 
no  longer  dissatisfied  with  your  working  at  all  sorts  of  studies, 
in  leisure  hours,  since  it  made  you  none  the  worse  man  of 
business." 

"No,  I  hope  not,  or  I  should  be  much  ashamed.  It  would 
not  be  doing  my  duty  to  myself  any  more  than  to  my  master, 
if  I  shirked  his  work  for  my  own.  I  am  glad  he  does  not 
complain  now,  Phineas." 

"On  the  contrary;  I  think  he  intends  to  give  you  a  rise  this 
miflsuminer.  But  oh!"  I  cried,  recurring  to  a  thought  which 
would  often  come  when  I  looked  at  the  lad,  though  he  always 
combated  it  so  strongly,  that  I  often  owned  my  prejudices 
were  unjust:  "How  I  wish  you  were  something  better  than 
a  clerk  in  a  tan-yard.  I  have  a  plan,  John." 

But  what  that  plan  was  was  fated  to  remain  unrevealed. 
Jael  came  to  us  in  the  garden,  looking  very  serious.  She 
had  been  summoned,  I  knew,  to  a  long  conference  with  her 
master  the  day  before,  the  subject  of  which  she  would  not 
tell  me,  though  she  acknowledged  it  concerned  myself.  Ever 
since  she  had  followed  me  about  very  softly,  for  her,  and 


56  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

called  me  more  than  once,  as  when  I  was  a  child,  "my  dear." 
She  now  came  with  half-dolorous,  half-angry  looks,  to  sum- 
mon me  to  an  interview  with  my  father  and  Dr.  Jessop. 

I  caught  her  parting  mutterings  as  she  marched  behind  me: 
"Kill  or  cure,  indeed" — "No  more  fit  than  a  baby" — "Abel 
Fletcher  be  clean  mad" — "Hope  Thomas  Jessop  will  speak 
out  plain  and  tell  him  so,"  and  the  like.  From  these,  and 
from  her  strange  fit  of  tenderness,  I  guessed  what  was  loom- 
ing in  the  distance — a  future  which  my  father  constantly  held 
in  terrorem  over  me,  though  successive  illnesses  had  kept  it  in 
abeyance.  Alas!  I  knew  that  my  poor  father's  hopes  and 
plans  were  vain!  I  went  into  his  presence  with  a  heavy  heart. 

There  is  no  need  to  detail  that  interview.  Enough,  that 
after  it  he  set  aside  forever  his  last  lingering  hope  of  having 
a  son  able  to  assist,  and  fmallly  succeed  him  in  his  business, 
and  that  I  set  aside  every  dream  of  growing  up  to  be  a  help 
and  comfort  to  my  father.  It  cost  something  on  both  our 
parts;  but  after  that  day's  discussion  we  tacitly  covered  over 
the  pain  and  referred  to  it  no  more. 

I  came  back  into  the  garden  and  told  John  Halifax  all.  He 
listened,  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  his  grave,  sweet 
look — dearer  sympathy  than  any  words!  Though  he  added 
thereto  a  few,  in  his  own  wise  way,  then  he  and  I,  also,  drew 
the  curtain  over  an  inevitable  grief,  and  laid  it  in  the  peace- 
ful chamber  of  silence. 

When  my  father,  Dr.  Jessop,  John  Halifax  and  I  met  at 
dinner,  the  subject  had  passed  into  seeming  oblivion  and  was 
never  afterward  revived. 

But  dinner  being  over,  and  the  chatty  little  doctor  gone, 
while  Abel  Fletcher  sat  mutely  smoking  his  pipe,  and  we  two 
at  the  window  maintained  that  respectful  and  decorous  silence 
which  in  my  younger  days  was  rigidly  exacted  by  elders  and 
superiors,  I  noticed  my  father's  eyes  frequently  resting,  with 
keen  observance,  upon  John  Halifax.  Could  it  be  that  there 
had  recurred  to  him  a  hint  of  mine,  given  faintly  that  morn- 
ing, as  faintly  as  if  it  had  only  just  entered  my  mind,  instead 
of  having  for  months  continually  dwelt  there,  until  a  fitting 
moment  should  arrive  Could  it  be  that  this  hint,  which  he 
had  indignantly  scouted  at  the  time,  was  germinating  in  his 
acute  brain,  and  might  bear  fruit  in  future  days?  I  hoped  so 
— I  earnestly  prayed  so.  And  to  that  end  I  took  no  notice, 
but  let  it  silently  grow, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  67 

The  June  evening  came  and  went.  The  service-bell  rang 
out  and  ceased.  First,,  deep  shadows,  and  then  a  bright  star 
appeared  over  the  Abbey  tower.  We  watched  it  from  the 
garden,  where,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  in  fine  weather  we  used 
to  lounge,  and  talk  over  all  manner  of  things  in  heaven  and 
in  earth,  chiefly  ending  with  the  former,  as  on  Sunday  nights, 
with  stars  over  our  heads,  was  natural  and  fit  we  should  do. 

"Phineas,"  said  John,  sitting  on  the  grass  with  his  hands 
upon  his  knees,  and  the  one  star,  I  think  it  was  Jupiter,  shin- 
ing down  into  his  eyes,  deepening  them  into  that  peculiar 
look,  worth  any  so-called  "handsome  eyes;"  "Phineas,  I  won- 
der how  soon  we  shall  have  to  rise  up  from  this  quiet,  easy 
life,  and  fight  our  battles  in  the  world.  Also,  I  wonder  if  we 
are  ready  for  it." 

"I  think  you  are." 

"I  don't  know.  I'm  not  clear  how  far  I  could  resist  doing 
anything  wrong,  if  it  were  pleasant.  So  many  wrong  things 
are  pleasant — just  now,  instead  of  rising  to-morrow,  and  go- 
ing into  the  little  dark  counting-house,  and  scratching  paper 
from  eight  till  six,  shouldn't  I  like  to  break  away!  Dash  out 
into  the  world,  take  to  all  sorts  of  wild  freaks,  do  all  sorts  of 
grand  things,  and  perhaps  never  come  back  to  the  tanning 
any  more." 

"Never,  any  more." 

"No,  no!  I  spoke  hastily.  I  did  not  mean  I  ever  should 
do  such  a  wrong  thing;  but  merely  that  I  sometimes  feel  the 
wish  to  do  it.  I  can't  help  it;  it's  my  Apollyon  that  I  have  to 
fight  with — everybody  keeps  a  private  Apollyon,  I  fancy. 
Now,  Phineas,  be  content;  my  Apollyon  is  beaten  down." 

He  rose  up,  but  I  thought  that,  in  the  red  glow  of  the 
twilight,  he  looked  rather  pale.  He  stretched  his  hand  to 
help  me  up  from  the  grass.  We  went  into  the  house  together, 
silently. 

After  supper,  when  the  chimes  struck  half-past  nine,  John 
prepared  to  leave  as  usual.  He  went  to  bid  good-night  to  my 
father,  who  was  sitting  meditatively  over  the  fireless  hearth- 
place,  sometimes  poking  the  great  bow-pot  of  fennel  and 
asparagus,  as  in  winter  he  did  the  coals;  an  instance  of 
obliviousness  which,  in  my  sensible  and  acute  father,  argued 
very  deep  cogitation  on  some  subject  or  other. 

"Good-night,''  said  John,  twice  over,  before  his  master  heard 
him, 


18  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Eh?  Oh,  good-night,  good-night,  lad.  Stay!  Halifax, 
what  hast  thee  got  to  do  to-morrow?" 

"Not  much,  unless  the  Russian  hides  should  come  in;  I 
cleared  off  the  week's  accounts  last  night,  as  usual." 

"Ay,  to-morrow  I  shall  look  over  all  thy  books,  and  see  how 
thee  stand'st,  and  what  further  work  thou  art  n't  for.  There- 
fore, take  a  day's  holiday,  if  thee  likes." 

We  thanked  him  warmly.  "There,  John,''  whispered  I, 
"you  may  have  your  wish,  and  run  wild  to-morrow." 

He  said,  "the  wish  had  gone  out  of  him."  So  we  planned 
a  sweet  lazy  day  under  the  midsummer  sky,  in  some  fields 
about  a  mile  off,  called  the  Vineyards. 

The  morning  came  and  we  took  our  way  thither,  under 
the  Abbey  walls,  and  along  a  lane,  shaded  on  one  side  by  the 
"willows  in  the  water-courses."  We  came  out  in  those  quiet 
hay-fields,  which,  tradition  says,  had  once  grown  wine  for  the 
rosy  monks  close  by,  and,  history  avers,  were_  afterward  wa- 
tered by  a  darker  stream  than  the  blood  of  grapes.  The 
Vineyards  had  been  a  battle-field;  and  under  the  long  wavy 
grass,  and  the  roots  of  the  wild  apple-trees,  slept  many  a  York- 
ist and  Lancastrian.  Sometimes  an  unusually  deep  furrow 
turned  out  a  white  bone — but  more  often  the  relics  were  un- 
disturbed, and  the  meadows  used  as  pastures  or  hay-fields. 

John  and  I  lay  down  on  some  wind-rows,  and  sunned  our- 
selves in  the  warm  and  delicious  air.  How  beautiful  even-- 
thing was!  so  very  still!  with  the  Abbey  tower — always  the 
most  picturesque  point  in  our  Norton  Bury  views — showing 
so  near,  that  it  almost  seemed  to  rise  up  out  of  the  fields  and 
hedge-rows. 

"Well,  David,"  and  1  turned  to  the  long,  lazy  figure  beside 
me,  which  had  considerablv  flattened  the  hay;  are  you  sat- 
isfied?" 

"Ay." 

Thus  we  lounged  out  all  the  summer  morning,  recurring 
to  a  few  of  the  infinitude  of  subjects  we  used  to  compare  notes 
upon;  though  we  were  neither  of  us  given  to  wordiness,  and 
never  talked  but  when  we  had  something  to  say.  Often — as 
on  this  day — we  sat  for  hours  in  a  pleasant  dreaminess, 
scarcely  exchanging  a  word;  nevertheless,  I  could  generally 
track  John's  thoughts,  as  they  went  wandering  on,  ay,  as 
clearly  as  one  might  track  a  stream  through  a  wood;  some- 
times— like  to-day — I  failed. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  59 

In  the  afternoon,  when  we  had  finished  our  bread  and 
cheese — eaten  slowly  and  with  graceful  dignity,  in  order  to 
make  dinner  a  more  important  and  lengthy  affair — he  said 
abruptly: 

"Phineas,  don't  you  think  this  field  is  rather  dull?  Shall 
we  go  somewhere  else? — not  if  it  tires  you,  though." 

I  protested  the  contrary,  my  health  being  much  above  the 
average  this  summer.  But  just  as  we  were  quitting  the  field 
we  met  two  rather  odd-looking  persons  entering  it,  young- 
old  persons  they  seemed,  who  might  own  to  any  age  or  any  oc- 
cupation. Their  dress,  especially  that  of  the  younger, 
amused  us  by  its  queer  mixture  of  fashionableness  and  home- 
liness, such  as  gray  ribbed  stockings  and  shining  paste  shoe- 
buckles,  rusty  velvet  small-clothes  and  a  coat  of  blue  cloth. 
But  the  wearer  carried  off  this  anomalous  costume  with  an 
easy,  condescending  air,  full  of  pleasantness,  humor,  and 
grace. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  approaching  John  Halifax,  with"  a  bow  that 
I  feel  sure  the  "first  gentleman  of  his  day,"  as  loyal  folk  then 
entitled  the  Prince  Regent,  could  not  have  surpassed — "Sir, 
will  you  favor  me  by  informing  us  how  far  it  is  to  Coltham?" 

"Ten  miles,  and  the  stage  will  pass  here  in  three  hours." 

"Thank  you;  at  present  I  have  little  to  do  with  the — at 
least  with  that  stage.  Young  gentleman,  excuse  our  continu- 
ing our  dessert,  in  fact,  I  may  say  our  dinner.  Are  you  con- 
noisseurs in  turnips?" 

He  offered  us — with  a  polite  gesture — one  of  the  "swedes" 
he  was  munching.  I  declined;  but  John,  out  of  a  deeper  deli- 
cacy than  I  could  boast,  accepted  it. 

"One  might  dine  worse,"  he  said;  "I  have  done,  some- 
times." 

"It  was  a  whim  of  mine,  sir.  But  I  am  not  the  first  re- 
markable person  who  has  eaten  turnips  in  your  Norton  Bury 
fields — ay,  and  turned  field-preacher  afterward — the  cele- 
brated John  Philip- 
Here  the  elder  and  less  agreeable  of  the  two  wayfarers  in- 
terposed with  a  nudge,  indicating  silence. 

"My  companion  is  right,  sir,"  he  continued.  "I  will  not 
betray  our  illustrious  friend  by  mentioning  his  surname;  he 
is  a  great  man  now,  and  might  not  wish  it  generally  known 
that  he  had  dined  off  turnips.  May  I  give  you  instead  my 
own  humble  name?" 


60  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

He  gave  it  me;  but  I,  Phineas  Fletcher,  shall  copy  his 
reticence,  and  not  indulge  the  world  therewith.  It  was  a 
name  wholly  out  of  my  sphere,  both  then  and  now;  but  I 
know  it  has  since  risen  into  note  among  the  people  of  the 
world.  I  believe,  too,  its  owner  has  carried  up  to  the  topmost 
height  of  celebrity  always  the  gay,  gentlemanly  spirit,  and 
kindly  heart,  which  he  showed  when  sitting  with  us  and  eat- 
ing swedes.  Still,  I  will  not  mention  his  surname.  I  will 
only  call  him  "Mr.  Charles/' 

"Now,  having  satisfactorily  'munched,  and  munched,  and 
munched/  like  the  sailor's  wife  who  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap 
— are  you  acquainted  with  my  friend,  Mr.  William  Shakes- 
peare, young  gentleman?  I  must  try  to  fulfill  the  other 
duties  of  existence.  You  said  the  Coltham  mail  passed  here 
in  three  hours?  Very  well.  I  have  the  honor  of  wishing 
you  a  very  good-day,  Mr. " 

"Halifax." 

"And  yours?" 

"Fletcher." 

"Any  connection  with  him  who  went  partnership  with  the 
worthy  Beaumont?" 

"My  father  has  no  partner,  sir,"  said  I.  But  John,  whose 
reading  had  latterly  surpassed  mine,  and  whom  nothing  ever 
puzzled,  explained  that  I  came  from  the  same  old  stock  as 
the  brothers  Phineas  and  Giles  Fletcher.  Upon  which  Mr. 
Charles,  who  till  now  had  somewhat  overlooked  me,  took  oil 
his  hat,  and  congratulated  me  on  my  illustrious  descent. 

"That  man  has  evidently  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world," 
said  John,  smiling;  "I  wonder  what  the  world  is  like!" 

"Did  you  not  see  something  of  it  as  a  child?" 

"Only  the  worst  and  lowest  side:  not  the  one  I  want  to  see 
now.  What  business  do  you  think  that  Mr.  Charles  is  in?  A 
clever  man,  anyhow;  I  should  like  to  see  him  again." 

"So  should  I." 

Thus  talking  at  intervals  and  speculating  upon  our  now 
acquaintance,  we  strolled  along  till  we  came  to  a  spot  called 
by  the  country  people  "the  Bloody  Meadow,"  from  being, 
like  several  other  places  in  the  neighborhood,  the  scene  of 
one  of  those  terrible  slaughters  chronicled  in  the  wars  of  the 
Roses.  It  was  a  sloping  field,  through  the  middle  of  which 
ran  a  little  stream  down  to  the  meadow's  end,  where,  fringed 
and  hidden  by  a  plantation  of  trees,  the  Avon  flowed.  Here, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  61 

too,  in  all  directions,  the  hay-fields  lay,  either  in  green  swathes, 
or  tedded,  or  in  the  luxuriously-scented  quiles.  The  lane 
was  quite  populous  with  wagons  and  hay-makers — the  men  in 
their  corduroys  and  blue  hose — the  women  in  their  trim  jack- 
ets and  bright  calamanco  petticoats.  There  were  more  wo- 
men than  men,  by  far,  for  the  flower  of  the  peasant  youth  of 
England  had  been  drafted  off  to  fight  against  "Bonyparty." 
Still  hay-time  was  a  glorious  season,  when  half  our  little  town 
turned  out,  and  made  holiday  in  the  sunshine. 

"I  think  we  will  go  to  a  quieter  place,  John.  There  seems 
a  crowd  down  in  the  meadow;  and  who  is  that  man  standing 
on  the  hay-cart,  on  the  other  side  of  the  stream?" 

"Don't  you  remember  the  bright  blue  coat?  'Tis  Mr. 
Charles.  How  he  is  talking  and  gesticulating!  What  can 
he  be  at?" 

Without  more  ado,  John  leaped  the  low  hedge,  and  ran 
down  the  slope  of  the  Bloody  Meadow.  I  followed  less 
quickly. 

There,  of  a  surety,  stood  our  new  friend,  on  one  of  the  sim- 
ple-fashioned hay-carts  that  we  used  about  Norton  Bury,  a 
low  frame-work  on  wheels,  with  a.pole  stuck  at  either  of  the 
four  corners.  He  was  bareheaded,  and  his  hair  hung  in  grace- 
ful curls,  well  powdered.  I  only  hope  he  had  honestly  paid 
the  tax,  which  we  were  all  then  exclaiming  against — so  fondly 
does  custom  cling  to  deformity.  Despite  the  powder,  the 
blue  coat,  and  the  shabby  velvet  breeches,  Mr.  Charles  was  a 
very  handsome  and  striking-looking  man.  No  wonder  the 
poor  hay-makers  had  collected  from  all  parts  to  hear  him 
harangue. 

What  was  he  haranguing  upon?  Could  it  be,  that  like 
his  friend,  "John  Philip,"  whoever  that  personage  might  be, 
his  vocation  was  that  of  a  field-preacher?  It  seemed  like  it, 
especially  judging  from  the  sanctified  demeanor  of  the  elder 
and  inferior  person  who  accompanied  him,  and  who  sat  in  the 
front  of  the  cart,  and  folded  his  hands  and  groaned,  after  the 
most  approved  fashion  of  a  Methodistical  "revival." 

We  listened,  expecting  every  minute  to  be  disgusted  and 
shocked;  but  no!  I  must  say  this  for  Mr.  Charles,  that  in  no 
way  did  he  trespass  the  bounds  of  reverence  and  decorum. 
His  harangue,  though  given  as  a  sermon,  was  strictly  and 
simply  a  moral  essay,  such  as  might  have  emanated  from  any 
professor's  chair.  In  fact,  as  I  afterward  learned,  he  had 


62  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

given  for  his  text  one  which  the  simple  rustics  received  in  all 
respect,  as  coming  from  a  higher  and  holier  volume  than 
Shakespeare. 

"Mercy  is  twice  blessed: 

It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes. 
Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest." 

And  on  that  text  did  he  dilate;  gradually  warming  with  his 
subject,  till  his  gestures — which  at  first  had  seemed  burdened 
with  a  queer  constraint,  that  now  and  then  resulted  in  an 
irrepressible  twitch  of  the  corners  of  his  flexible  mouth — be- 
came those  of  a  man  beguiled  into  real  earnestness.  We  of 
Norton  Bury  had  never  heard  such  eloquence. 

"Who  can  he  be,  John?    Isn't  it  wonderful?" 

But  John  never  heard  me.  His  whole  attention  was  riveted 
on  the  speaker.  Such  oratory — a  compound  of  graceful  ac- 
tion, polished  language,  and  brilliant  imagination,  came  to 
him  as  a  positive  revelation — a  revelation  from  the  world  of 
intellect,  the  world  which  he  longed  after  with  all  the  ardor 
of  youth. 

What  that  harangue  would  have  seemed  like,  could  we 
have  heard  it  with  maturer  ears,  I  know  not;  but  at  eighteen 
and  twenty  it  literally  dazzled  us.  No  wonder  it  affected  the 
rest  of  the  audience.  Feeble  men,  leaning  on  forks  and 
rakes,  shook  their  old  heads  sagely,  as  if  they  understood  it 
all.  And  when  the  speaker  alluded  to  the  horrors  of  war — 
a  subject  which  then  came  so  bitterly  home  to  every  heart  in 
Britain — many  women  melted  into  sobs  and  tears.  At  last, 
when  the  orator  himself,  moved  by  the  pictures  he  had  con- 
jured up,  paused  suddenly,  quite  exhausted,  and  asked  for  a 
slight  contribution  "to  help  a  deed  of  charity,"  there  was  a 
general  rush  toward  him. 

"No,  no,  my  good  people,"  said  Mr.  Charles,  recovering  his 
natural  manner,  though  a  little  clouded,  I  thought,  by  a 
faint  shade  of  remorse.  "No,  I  will  not  take  from  any  one 
more  than  a  penny;  and  then  only  if  they  are  quite  sure  they 
can  spare  it.  Thank  you,  my  worthy  man.  Thanks,  my 
bonny  young  lass — I  hope  your  sweetheart  will  soon  be  back 
from  the  wars.  Thank  you  all,  my  'very  worthy  and  approved 
good  masters/  and  a  fair  harvest  to  you." 

He  bowed  them  away,  in  a  dignified  and  graceful  manner, 
still  standing  on  the  hay-cart.  The  honest  folk  trooped  off, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  63 

having  "no  more  time  to  waste,  and  left  the  field  in  possession 
of  Mr.  Charles,  his  co-mate,  and  ourselves,  whom  I  do  not 
think  he  had  as  yet  noticed. 

He  descended  from  the  cart.  His  companion  burst  into 
roars  of  laughter;  but  Mr.  Charles  looked  grave. 

"Poor,  honest  souls!''  said  he,  wiping  his  brows — I  am  not 
sure  that  it  was  only  his  brows.  "Hang  me  if  I'll  be  at  this 
trick  again,  Yates." 

"It  was  a  trick  then,  sir,"  said  John,  advancing.  "I  am 
sorry  for  it." 

"So  am  I,  young  man,*'  returned  the  other,  no  way  discon- 
certed; indeed,  he  seemed  a  person  whose  frank  temper  noth- 
ing could  disconcert.  "But  starvation  is — excuse  me — un- 
pleasant; and  necessity  has  no  law.  It  is  of  vital  consequence 
that  I  should  reach  Coltham  to-night;  and  after  walking 
twenty  miles,  one  cannot  easily  walk  ten  more,  and  afterward 
appear  as  Macbeth  to  an  admiring  audience." 

"You  are  an  actor?" 

"I  am,  please  your  worship — 

"  'A  poor  player, 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 
And  then  is  seen  no  more.'  " 

There  was  inexpressible  pathos  in  his  tone,  and  his  fine  face 
looked  thin  and  worn — it  did  not  take  much  to  soften  both 
John's  feelings  and  mine  toward  the  "poor  player."  Besides, 
we  had  lately  been  studying  Shakespeare,  who,  for  the  first 
time  of  reading,  generally  sends  all  young  people  tragedy- 
mad. 

"You  acted  well  to-day,"  said  John;  "all  the  folk  here  took 
you  for  a  Methodist  preacher." 

"Yet  I  never  meddled  with  theology — only  common  moral- 
ity. You  cannot  say  I  did." 

John  thought  a  moment  and  then  answered: 

"No.     But  what  put  the  scheme  into  your  head?" 

"The  fact  that  under  a  like  necessity,  the  same  amusing 
play  was  played  out  here  years  ago,  as  I  told  you,  by  John 
Philip — no,  I  will  not  conceal  his  name,  the  greatest  actor  and 
the  truest  gentleman  our  English  stage  has  ever  seen — John 
Philip  Kemble." 

And  he  raised  his  hat,  with  sincere  reverence.  We  too  had 
heard — at  least  John  had — of  this  wonderful  man. 


64  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

I  saw  the  fascination  of  Mr.  Charles'  society  was  strongly 
upon  him.  It  was  no  wonder.  More  brilliant,  more  versa- 
tile talent,  I  never  saw.  He  turned  "from  grave  to  gay,  from 
lively  to  severe" — appearing  in  all  phases  like  the  gentleman, 
the  scholar,  and  the  man  of  the  world.  And  neither  John 
nor  I  had  ever  met  any  one  of  these  character,1?,  all  so  irresis- 
tibly alluring  at  our  age. 

I  say  our,  because  though  I  followed  where  he  led,  I  always 
did  it  of  my  own  will  likewise. 

The  afternoon  began  to  wane,  while  we,  with  our  two  com- 
panions, yet  sat  talking  by  the  brook-side.  Mr.  Charles  had 
washed  his  face,  and  his  travel-sore,  blistered  feet,  and  we  had 
induced  him,  and  the  man  he  called  Yates.  to  share  our  rem- 
nants of  bread  and  cheese. 

"iSTow,"  he  said,  starting  up,  "I  am  ready  to  do  battle  again, 
even  with  the  Thane  of  Fife — who,  to-night,  is  one  Johnson, 
a  fellow  of  six  feet  and  twelve  stone.  What  is  the  hour,  Mr 
Halifax?" 

"Mr.  Halifax" — (I  felt  pleased  to  hear  him,  for  the  first 
time,  so  entitled) — had,  unfortunately,  no  watch  among  his 
worldly  possessions,  and  candidly  owned  the  fact.  But  he 
made  a  near  guess,  by  calculating  the  position  of  his  unfail- 
ing time-piece,  the  sun.  It  was  four  o'clock. 

"Then  I  must  go.  Will  you  not  retract,  young  gentleman? 
Surely  you  would  not  lose  such  a  rare  treat  as  'Macbeth,' 
with — I  will  not  say  my  humble  self — but  with  that  divine 
Siddons.  Such  a  woman!  Shakespeare  himself  might  lean 
out  of  Elysium  to  watch  her.  You  will  join  us?" 

John  made  a  silent,  dolorous  negative,  as  he  had  done  once 
or  twice  before,  when  the  actor  urged  us  to  accompany  'him 
to  Coltham,  for  a  few  hours  only — we  might  be  back  by  mid- 
night, easily. 

"What  do  you  think,  Phineas?"  said  John,  when  we  stood 
-in  the  high-road,  waiting  for  the  coach;  "I  have  money — and 
— we  have  so  little  pleasure — we  would  send  word  to  your 
father.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  wrong?'' 

I  could  not  say;  and  to  this  minute,  viewing  the  question 
nakedly  in  a  strict  and  moral  sense,  I  cannot  say  either, 
whether  or  no  it  was  an  absolute  crime;  therefore,  being  ac- 
customed to  read  my  wrong  or  right  in  "David's  eyes,"  I  re- 
mained perfectly  passive. 

We  waited  by  the   hedge-side    for   several  minutes.     Mr. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  65 

Charles  ceased  his  urging,  half  in  dudgeon,  save  that  he  was 
too  pleasant  a  man  really  to  take  offense  at  anything.  Kis 
conversation  was  chiefly  directed  to  me.  John  took  no  part 
therein,  but  strolled  about  plucking  at  the  hedge. 

When  the  stage  appeared  down  the  winding  of  the  road,  I 
was  utterly  ignorant  of  what  he  meant  us  to  do,  or  if  'he  had 
any  definite  purpose  at  all. 

It  came — the  coachman  was  hailed.  Mr.  Charles  shook 
hands  with  us  and  mounted,  paying  his  own  fare  and  that  of 
Yates  with  their  handful  of  charity-pennies,  which  caused  a 
few  minutes'  delay  in  counting,  .and  a  great  deal  of  good- 
humored  joking,  as  good-humoredly  borne. 

Meanwhile  John  put  his  two  hands  on  my  shoulders,  and 
looked  hard  into  my  face — he  was  slightly  flushed  and  ex- 
cited, I  thought. 

"Phineas,  are  you  tired?" 

"Not  at  all." 

"Do  you  feel  strong  enough  to  go  to  Coltham?  Would  it 
do  you  no  harm?  Would  you  like  to  go?" 

To  all  these  hurried  questions  I  answered  with  as  hurried 
an  affirmative.  It  was  sufficient  to  me  that  he  evidently  liked 
to  go.  _ 

"It  is  only  for  once;  your  father  would  not  grudge  us  the 
pleasure,  and  he  is  too  busy  to  be  out  of  the  tan-yard  before 
midnight.  We  will  be  home  soon  after  then,  if  I  carry  you 
on  my  back  all  the  ten  miles.  Come,  mount,  we'll  go." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Mr.  Charles,  and  leaned  over  to  help  me  up 
the  coach's  side.  John  followed,  and  the  crisis  was  past. 

But  I  noticed  that  for  several  miles  he  hardly  spoke  one 
word. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

as  we  lived  to  Coltham,  I  had  only  been  there  once  in 
my  life;  but  John  Halifax  knew  the  town  pretty  well,  having 
latterly,  in  addition  to  his  clerkship,  been  employed  bj  my 
father  in  going  about  the  neighborhood  buying  bark.  1  was 
amused  when  the  coach  stopped  at  an  inn,  <diich  bore  the 
ominous  sign  of  the  "Fleece,"  to  see  how  well  accustomed  he 
seemed  to  be  to  the  ways  of  the  place.  He  deported  himself 
with  perfect  self -possession;  the  waiter  served  him  respectfully. 


66  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

He  had  evidently  taken  his  position  in  the  world — at  least, 
our  little  world — he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  but  a  man.  I  was 
glad  to  see  it;  leaving  everything  in  his  hands,  I  lay  down 
where  he  placed  me  in  the  inn  parlor,  and  watched  him  giving 
his  orders  and  walking  about.  Sometimes  I  thought  his  eyes 
were  restless  and  unquiet,  but  his  manner  was  as  composed  as 
usual. 

Mr.  Charles  had  left  us,  appointing  a  meeting  at  Coffee- 
house Yard,  where  the  theater  then  was. 

''A  poor,  barn-like  place,  I  believe,"  said  John,  stopping 
in  his  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  to  place  my  cushions  more 
easy;  "they  should  build  a  new  one,  now  Coltiiam  is  growing 
up  into  such  a  fashionable  town.  I  wish  I  could  take  you  to 
see  the  'Well-walk/  with  all  the  fine  people  promenading. 
But  you  must  rest,  Phineas." 

I  consented,  being  indeed  rather  weary. 

"You  will  like  to  see  Mrs.  Siddons,  whom  we  have  so  often 
talked  about?  She  is  not  young  now,  Mr.  Charles  says,  but 
magnificent  still.  She  first  came  out  in  this  same  theater, 
more  than  twenty  years  ago.  Yates  saw  her.  I  wonder, 
Phineas,  if  your  father  ever  did?" 

"Oh  no!  my  father  would  not  enter  a  play-house  for  the 
world." 

"What!" 

"Nay,  John,  you  need  not  look  so  troubled.  You  know 
he  did  not  bring  me  up  in  the  Society,  and  its  restrictions  are 
not  binding  upon  me." 

"True,  true."  And  he  resumed  his  walk,  but  not  his 
cheerfulness.  "If  it  were  myself  alone  now,  of  course,  what 
I  myself  hold  to  be  a  lawful  pleasure  I  have  a  right  to  enjoy; 
or,  if  not,  being  yet  a  lad  and  under  a  master — well,  I  will 
bear  the  consequences,"  added  he,  rather  proudly;  "but  to 
share  them — Phineas,"  turning  suddenly  to  me,  "would  you 
like  to  go  home?  I'll  take  you." 

I  protested  earnestly  against  any  such  thing;  told  him  I  was 
sure  we  were  doing  nothing  wrong — which  was,  indeed,  my 
belief;  entreated  him  to  be  merry  and  enjoy  himself,  and  suc- 
ceeded so  well  that  in  a  few  minutes  we  had  started  in  a  flutter 
of  gayety  and  excitement  for  Coffee-house  Yard. 

It  was  a  poor  place — little  better  than  a  barn,  as  Mr. 
Charles  had  said — built  in  a  lane  leading  out  of  the  principal 
street.  This  lane  was  almost  blocked  up  with  play-goers  of 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  67 

all  ranks  and  in  all  sorts  of  equipages,  from  the  coach-and- 
six  to  the  sedan-chair,  mingled  with  a  motley  crowd  on  foot, 
all  jostling,  fighting,  and  screaming,  till  the  place  became  a 
complete  bear-garden. 

"Oh,  John!  take  care!"  and  I  clung  to'his  arm. 

"Never  mind!  I'm  big  enough  and  strong  enough  for  any 
crowd.  Hold  on,  Phineas."  If  I  had  been  a  woman,  and 
the  woman  that  he  loved,  he  could  not  have  been  more  tender 
over  my  weakness.  The  physical  weakness — which,  however 
humiliating  to  myself,  and  doubtless  contemptible  in  most 
men's  eyes — was  yet  dealt  by  the  hand  of  Heaven,  and,  as 
such,  regarded  by  John  only  with  compassion. 

The  crowd  grew  denser  and  more  fonnidable.  I  looked  be- 
yond it,  up  toward  the  low  hills  that  rose  in  various  directions 
round  the  town;  how  green  and  quiet  they  were,  in  the  still 
June  evening!  I  only  wished  we  were  safe  back  again  at 
Norton  Bury. 

But  now  there  came  a  slight  swaying  in  the  crowd,  as  a 
sedan-chair  was  borne  through — or  attempted  to  be — for  the 
effort  failed.  There  was  a  scuffle,  and  one  of  the  bearers 
was  knocked  down  and  hurt.  Some  cried  "Shame!"  others 
seemed  to  think  this  incident  only  added  to  the  frolic.  At 
last,  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  a  lady  put  her  head  out  of 
the  sedan  and  gazed  around  her. 

It  was  a  remarkable  countenance;  once  seen,  you  could 
never  forget  it.  Pale,  rather  large  and  hard  in  outline,  an 
aquiline  nose — full,  passionate,  yet  sensitive  lips — and  very 
dark  eyes.  She  spoke,  and  the  voice  belonged  naturally  to 
such  a  face.  "Good  people,  let  me  pass.  I  am  Sarah  Sid- 
dons." 

The  crowd  divided  instantaneously,  and,  in  moving,  set 
up  a  cheer  that  must  have  rang  through  all  the  town.  There 
was  a  minute's  pause  while  she  bowed  and  smiled — such  a 
smile! — and  then  the  sedan  curtain  closed. 

"Now's  the  time — only  hold  fast  to  me!"  whispered  John, 
as  he  sprang  forward,  dragging  me  after  him.  In  another 
second  he  had  caught  up  the  pole  dropped  by  the  man  who 
was  hurt;  and  before  I  well  knew  what  we  were  about,  we 
both  stood  safe  inside  the  entrance  of  the  theater. 

Mrs.  Siddons  stepped  out,  and  turned  to  pay  her  bearers — 
a  most  simple  action — but  so  elevated  in  the  doing,  that  even 
it,  I  thought,  could  not  bring  her  to  the  level  of  common 


68  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

humanity.  The  tall,  cloaked,  and  hooded  figure,  and  the 
tones  that  issued  thence,  made  her,  even  in  that  narrow  pas- 
sage, under  the  one  flaring  tallow  candle,  a  veritable  Queen  of 
Tragedy — at  least,  so  she  seemed  to  us  two. 

The  one  man  was  paid — overpaid,  apparently,  from  his 
thankfulness — and  she  turned  to  John  Halifax. 

"I  regret,  young  man,  that  you  should  have  had  so  much 
trouble.  Here  is  some  requital." 

He  took  the  money,  selected  from  it  one  silver  coin,  and 
returned  the  rest. 

"I  will  keep  this,  madam,  if  you  please,  as  a  memento  that 
I  once  had  the  honor  of  being  useful  to  Mrs.  Siddons." 

She  looked  at  him  keenly  out  of  her  wonderful  dark  eyes, 
then  courtesied  with  grave  dignity.  "I  thank  you,  sir,"  she 
said,  and  passed  on. 

A  few  minutes  after  some  underling  of  the  theater  found 
us  out  and  brought  us,  "by  Mrs.  Siddons'  desire,"  to  the  best 
places  the  house  could  afford. 

It  was  a  glorious  night.  At  this  distance  of  time,  when 
I  look  back  upon  it,  my  old  blood  leaps  and  burns.  I  repeat, 
it  was  a  glorious  night! 

Before  the  curtain  rose  we  had  time  to  glance  about  us  on 
that  scene,  to  both  entirely  new — the  inside  of  a  theater. 
Shabby  and  small  as  the  place  was,  it  was  filled  with  all  the 
beau  monde  of  Coltham,  which  then,  patronized  by  royalty, 
rivaled  even  Bath  in  its  fashion  and  folly.  Such  a  dazzle  of 
diamonds  and  spangled  turbans  and  Prince-of- Wales'  plumes. 
Such  an  odd  mingling  of  costume,  which  was  then  in  a  tran- 
sition state,  the  old  ladies  clinging  tenaciously  to  the  stately 
silken  petticoats  and.  long  bodices,  surmounted  by  the  prim 
and  decent  bouffantes,  while  the  younger  belles  had  begun  to 
flaunt  in  the  French  fashions  of  flimsy  muslins,  short-waisted 
— narrow-skirted.  These  we  had  already  heard  Jael  furiously 
inveighing  against;  for  Jael,  Quakeress  as  she  was,  could  not 
quite  smother  her  original  propensity  toward  the  decoration 
of  "the  flesh,"  and  betrayed  a  suppressed  but  profound  in- 
terest in  the  same. 

John  and  I  quite  agreed  with  her  that  it  was  painful  to  see 
gentle  English  girls  clad,  or  rather  unclad,  after  the  fashion 
of  our  enemies  across  the  Channel;  now,  unhappy  nation! 
sunk  to  zero  in  politics,  religion  and  morals — where  high- 
bred ladies  went  about  dressed  as  heathen  goddesses,  with  bare 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  68 

amis  and  bare  sandaled  feet,  gaining  none  of  the  pure  sim- 
plicity of  the  ancient  world,  and  losing  all  the  decorous  dig- 
nity of  our  modern  times. 

We  two — who  had  all  a  boy's  mysterious  reverence  for  wo- 
manhood, in  its  most  ideal,  most  beautiful  form,  and  who,  I 
believe,  were,  in  our  ignorance,  expecting  to  behold  in  every 
woman  an  Imogen,  a  Juliet,  or  a  Desdemona — felt  no  par- 
ticular attraction  toward  the  ungracefully  attired,  flaunting, 
simpering  belles  of  Coltham. 

But — the  play  began. 

I  am  not  going  to  follow  it;  all  the  world  has  heard  of  the 
Lady  Macbeth  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  This,  the  first  and  last  play 
I  ever  witnessed,  stands  out  to  my  memory,  after  more  than 
half  a  century,  as  clear  as  on  that  night.  Still  I  can  see  her 
in  her  first  scene,  "reading  a  letter" — that  wondrous  woman, 
who,  in  spite  of  her  modern  black  velvet  and  point-lace,  did 
not  act,  but  was  Lady  Macbeth;  still  I  hear  the  awe-struck, 
questioning,  weird-like  tone,  that  sent  an  involuntary  shud- 
der through  the  house,  as  if  supernatural  things  were  abroad 
— "They  made  themselves — air!"  And  still  there  quivers 
through  the  silence  that  piteous  cry  of  a  strong  heart  broken 
— "All  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  will  never  sweeten  this  little 
hand!" 

Well,  she  is  gone,  like  the  brief  three  hours  when  we  hung 
on  her  every  breath,  as  if  it  could  stay  even  the  wheels  of 
time.  But  they  have  whirled  on — whirled  her  away  with  them 
into  the  infinite,  and  into  earthly  oblivion!  People  tell  me 
that  a  new  generation  only  smiles  at  the  traditional  glory  of 
Sarah  Siddons.  They  never  saw  her.  For  me,  I  shall  go 
down  to  the  grave  worshiping  her  still. 

Of  him  whom  I  call  Mr.  Charles,  I  have  little  to  say.  John 
and  I  both  smiled  when  we  saw  his  fine,  frank  face  and  manly 
bearing  subdued  into  that  poor,  whining,  sentimental  craven, 
the  stage  Macbeth.  Yet  I  believe  he  acted  it  well.  But  we 
irresistibly  associated  this  idea  with  that  of  turnip-munching 
and  hay-cart  oratory.  And  when,  during  the  first  colloquy 
of  Bar.  quo  with  the  witches,  Macbeth  took  the  opportunity  of 
winking  privately  at  us  over  the  foot-lights,  all  the  parapher- 
nalia of  the  stage  failed  to  make  the  murderous  Thane  of 
Cawclor  aught  else  than  our  humorous  and  good-natured  Mr. 
Charles.  I  never  saw  him  after  that  night.  He  is  still  liv- 


70  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ing — may  his  old  age  have  been  as  peaceful  as  his  youth  was 
kind  and  gay. 

The  play  ended.  There  was  some  buffoonery  still  to  come, 
but  we  would  not  stay  for  that.  We  staggered,  half -blind  and 
dazzled  both  in  eyes  and  brain,  out  into  the  dark  streets, 
John  almost  carrying  me.  Then  we  paused,  and  leaning 
against  a  post  which  was  surmounted  by  one  of  the  half-dozen 
oil-lamps,  which  illumined  the  town,  tried  to  regain  our  men- 
tal equilibrium. 

John  was  the  first  to  do  it.  Passing  his  hand  over  his 
brow,  he  bared  it  to  the  fresh  night-air,  and  drew  a  deep,  hard 
breath.  He  was  very  pale,  I  saw. 

"John?" 

He  turned,  and  laid  a  hand  on  my  shoulder.  "What  did 
you  say?  Are  you  cold?" 

"No."  He  put  his  arm  so  as  to  shield  the  wind  from  me, 
nevertheless. 

"Well,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "we  have  had  our  pleasure, 
and  it  is  over.  Now  we  must  go  back  to  the  old  ways  again. 
I  wonder  what  o'clock  it  is?" 

He  was  answered  by  a  church  clock  striking,  heard  clearly 
over  the  silent  town.  I  counted  the  strokes — eleven! 

Horrified,  we  looked  at  one  another  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp.  Until  this  minute  we  had  taken  no  note  of  time. 
Eleven  o'clock!  How  should  we  get  home  to  Norton  Bury 
that  night? 

For,  now  the  excitement  was  over,  I  turned  sick  and  faint; 
my  limbs  almost  sank  under  me. 

"What  must  we  do,  John?" 

"Do!  Oh!  'tis  quite  easy.  You  cannot  walk — you  shall 
not  walk — we  must  hire  a  gig,  and  drive  home.  I  have 
enough  money — all  my  month's  wages — see!"  He  felt  in  his 
pockets  one  after  the  other;  his  countenance  grew  blank. 
"Why,  where  is  my  money  gone  to?" 

Where,  indeed!  But  that  it  was  gone  and  irretrievably- 
most  likely  stolen  when  we  were  so  wedged  in  the  crowd — 
there  could  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  And  I  had  not  a  groat. 
I  had  little  use  for  money,  and  rarely  carried  any. 

"Would  not  somebody  trust  us?"  suggested  I. 

"I  never  asked  an}'body  for  credit  in  my  life — and  for  a 
horse  and  gig — they'd  laugh  at  me.  Still — yes — stay  here  a 
minute  and  I'll  try." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  71 

He  came  back,  though  not  immediately,  and  took  my  arm 
with  a  reckless  laugh. 

"It's  of  no  use,  Phineas,  I'm  not  so  respectable  as  I 
thought.  What's  to  be  done?" 

Ayl  what  indeed!  Here  we  were,  two  friendless  youths, 
with  not  a  penny  in  our  pockets,  and  ten  miles  away  from 
home.  How  to  get  there,  and  at  midnight,  too,  was  a  very 
serious  question.  We  consulted  a  minute  and  then  John 
said,  firmly: 

"We  must  make  the  best  of  it  and  start.  Every  instant  is 
precious.  Your  father  will  think  we  have  fallen  into  some 
harm.  Come,  Phineas,  I'll  help  you  on." 

His  strong,  cheery  voice,  added  to  the  necessity  of  the  cir- 
cumstances, braced  up  my  nerves.  I  took  hold  of  his  arm, 
and  we  marched  on  bravely  through  the  shut-up  town,  and 
for  a  mile  or  two  along  the  high-road  leading  to  Norton  Bury. 
There  was  a  cool,  fresh  breeze;  and  I  often  think  one  can 
walk  so  much  further  by  night  than  by  day.  For  some  time, 
listening  to  John's  talk  about  the  stars — he  had  lately  added 
astronomy  to  the  many  things  he  tried  to  learn — and  recall- 
ing with  him  all  that  we  had  heard  and  seen  this  day,  I  hardly 
felt  my  weariness. 

But  gradually  it  grew  upon  me;  my  pace  lagged  slower  and 
slower — even  the  scented  air  of  the  midsummer  night  im- 
parted no  freshness.  John  wound  his  young  arm,  strong  and 
firm  as  iron,  round  my  waist,  and  we  got  on  awhile  in  that 
way. 

"Keep  up,  Phineas.  There's  a  hay-rick  near;  I'll  wrap  you 
in  my  coat,  and  you  shall  rest  there;  an  hour  or  two  will  not 
matter  now — we  shall  get  home  by  daybreak." 

I  feebly  assented;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  never  should 
get  home — at  least,  I  never  should.  For  a  short  way  more,  I 
dragged  myself — or  rather,  was  dragged  along;  then  the  stars, 
the  shadowy  fields,  and  the  winding,  white  high-road  mingled 
and  faded  from  me.  I  lost  all  consciousness! 

When  I  came  to  myself,  I  was  lying  by  a  tiny  brook  at  the 
road-side,  my  head  resting  on  John's  knees.  He  was  bathing 
my  forehead;  I  could  not  see  him,  but  I  heard  his  smothered 
moan. 

"David,  don't  mind.     I  shall  be  well  directly." 

"Oh,  Phineas,  Phineas!  I  thought  I  had  killed  you." 

He  said  no  more;  but  I  fancied  that  under  cover  of  the 


72  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

night  he  yielded    to   what    his   manhood  might  have  been 
ashamed  of — yet  need  not — a  few  tears. 

I  tried  to  rise.     There  was  a  faint  streak  in  the  east.  "Why, 
it  is  daybreak!     How  far  are  we  from  Norton  Bury?" 
"Not  very  far.     Don't  stir  a  step.     I  shall  carry  you." 
"Impossible!"  , 

"Nonsense;  I  have  done  it  for  half  a  mile  already.  Come, 
mount!  I  am  not  going  to  have  Jonathan's  death  laid  at  Da- 
vid's door." 

And  so,  masking  command  with  a  jest,  he  had  his  way. 
What  strength  supported  him  I  cannot  tell;  but  he  certainly 
carried  me — with  many  rests  between,  and  pauses,  during 
which  I  walked  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so — the  whole  way  to 
Norton  Bury. 

The  light  broadened  and  broadened;  when  we  reached  my 
father's  door,  haggard  and  miserable,  it  was  in  the  pale  sun- 
shine of  a  summer  morning. 

"Thank  God!"  murmured  John,  as  he  set  me  down  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps.  "You  are  safe  at  home." 

"And  you.  You  will  come  in — you  would  not  leave  me 
now  ?" 

He  thought  a  moment — then  said,  "No!" 
We  looked  up  doubtfully  at  the  house;  there  were  no  watch- 
ers there.  All  the  windows  were  closed,  as  if  the  whole 
peaceful  establishment  were  taking  its  sleep,  prior  to  the  early 
stirring  of  Norton  Bury  household.  Even  John's  loud  knock- 
ing was  some  time  before  it  was  answered. 

I  was  too  exhausted  to  feel  much;  but  I  know  those  five 
awful  minutes  seemed  interminable.  I  could  not  have  borne 
them,  save  for  John's  voice  in  my  ear. 

"Courage,  I'll  bear  all  the  blame.  We  have  committed  no 
absolute  sin,  and  have  paid  dearly  for  any  folly.  Courage!" 
At  the  five  minutes'  end,  my  father  opened  the  door.  He 
was  dressed  as  usual,  looked  as  usual.  Whether  he  had  sat 
up  watching,  or  had  suffered  any  anxiety,  I  never  found  out. 
He  said  nothing;  merely  opened  the  door,  admitted  us,  and 
closed  it  behind  us.  But  we  were  certain  from  his  face  that 
he  knew  all.  It  was  so;  some  neighbor  driving  home  from 
Coltham  had  taken  pains  to  tell  Abel  Fletcher  where  he  had 
seen  his  son — at  the  very  last  place  a  Friend's  son  ought  to 
be  seen — the  play-house.  We  knew  that  it  was  by  no  means 
to  learn  the  truth,  but  to  confront  us  with  it,  that  my  father 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  73 

— reaching  the  parlor,  and  opening  the  shutters,  that  the 
hard  daylight  should  shame  us  more  and  more — asked  the 
stern  question: 

"Phineas,  where  hast  thee  been?" 

John  answered  for  me.  "At  the  theater  at  Coltham.  It 
was  my  fault.  He  went  because  I  wished  to  go." 

"And  wherefore  didst  thee  wish  to  go?" 

^Ylierefore?"  the  answer  seemed  hard  to  find.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Fletcher,  were  you  never  young  like  me?" 

My  father  made  no  reply;  John  gathered  courage. 

"It  was,  as  I  say,  all  my  fault.  It  might  have  been  wrong 
— I  think  now  that  it  was — but  the  temptation  was  hard.  My 
life  here  is  dull;  I  long  sometimes  for  a  little  amusement — a 
little  change." 

"Thee  shall  have  it." 

That  voice,  slow  and  quiet  as  it  was,  struck  us  both  dumb. 

"And  how  long  hast  thee  planned  this,  John  Halifax?" 

"Not  a  day — not  an  hour.  It  was  a  sudden  freak  of  mine." 
(My  father  shook  his  head  with  contemptuous  incredulity.) 
'"Sir — Abel  Fletcher — did  I  ever  tell  you  a  lie?  If  you  will 
not  believe  me,  believe  your  own  son.  Ask  Phineas — no,  no, 
ask  him  nothing!"  And  he  came  in  great  distress  to  the  sofa 
where  I  had  fallen.  "Oh,  Phineas!  how  cruel  I  have  been  to 
you!" 

I  tried  to  smile  at  him,  being  past  speaking — but  my  fa- 
ther put  John  aside. 

"Young  man,  I  can  take  care  of  my  son.  Thee  shalt  not 
lead  him  into  harm's  way  any  more.  Go — I  have  been  mis- 
taken in  thee!" 

If  my  father  had  gone  into  a  passion,  had  accused  us,  re- 
proached us,  and  stormed  at  us  with  all  the  ill-language  that 
men  of  the  world  use!  but  that  quiet,  cold,  irrevocable,  "I 
have  been  mistaken  in  thee!"  was  ten  times  worse. 

John  lifted  to  him  a  mute  look,  from  which  all  pride  had 
ebbed  away. 

"I  repeat,  I  have  been  mistaken  in  thee.  Thee  seemed  a 
lad  to  my  mind;  I  trusted  thee.  This  day,  by  my  son's  wish, 
I  meant  to  have  bound  thee  'prentice  to  me,  and  in  good  time 
to  have  taken  thee  into  the  business.  Now " 

There  was  a  silence.  At  last  John  muttered,  in  a  low, 
broken-hearted  voice,  "I  deserve  it  all.  I  can  go  away.  I 
might,  perhaps,  earn  my  living  elsewhere;  shall  I?" 


74  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Abel  Fletcher  hesitated,  looked  at  the  poor  lad  before  him 
(oh,  David!  how  unlike  to  thee),  then  said,  "No,  I  do  not 
wish  that.  At  least,  not  at  present." 

I  cried  out  in  the  joy  and  relief  of  my  heart.  John  came 
over  to  me,  and  we  clasped  hands. 

"John,  you  will  not  go?" 

"No,  I  will  stay  to  redeem  my  character  with  your  father. 
Be  content,  Phineas,  I  won't  part  with  you." 

"Young  man,  thou  must,"  said  my  father,  turning  round. 

"But." 

"I  have  said  it,  Phineas.  I  accuse  him  of  no  dishonesty,  no 
crime  but  of  weakly  yielding,  and  selfishly  causing  another  to 
yield,  to  the  temptation  of  the  world.  Therefore,  as  my 
clerk  I  retain  him;  as  my  son's  companion — never!" 

We  felt  that  "never"  was  irrevocable. 

Yet  I  tried,  blindly  and  despairingly,  to  wrestle  with  it;  I 
might  as  well  have  flung  myself  against  a  stone  wall. 

John  stood  perfectly  silent. 

"Don't,  Phineas,"  he  whispered  at  last;  "never  mind  me. 
Your  father  is  right — at  least  so  far  as  he  sees.  Let  me  go — 
perhaps  I  may  come  back  to  you  some  time.  If  not— 

I  moaned  out  bitter  words — I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  say- 
ing. My  father  took  no  notice  of  them,  only  went  to  the  door 
and  called  Jael. 

Then,  before  the  woman  came,  I  had  strength  enough  to 
bid  John  go. 

"Good-by — don't  forget  me,  don't v 

"I  will  not,"  he  said;  "and  if  I  live,  we  shall  be  friends 
again.  Good-by,  Phineas."  He  was  gone. 

After  that  day,  though  he  kept  his  word,  and  remained  in 
the  tan-yard,  and  though  from  time  to  time  I  heard  of  him, 
always  accidentally — after  that  day,  for  two  long  years  I 
never  once  saw  the  face  of  John  Halifax. 


CHAPTEE  VII. 


It  was  the  year  1800,  long  known  in  English  households  as 
"the  dear  year."  The  present  generation  can  have  no  con- 
ception of  what  a  terrible  time  that  was — war,  famine  and 
tumult  stalking  hand  in  hand,  and  no  one  to  stay  them.  For 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  76 

between  the  upper  and  lower  classes  there  was  a  great  gulf 
fixed;  the  rich  ground  the  faces  of  the  poor  and  the  poor 
hated,  yet  meanly  succumbed  to  the  rich.  Neither  had 
Christianity  enough  boldly  to  cross  the  line  of  demarcation, 
and  prove,  the  humbler,  that  they  were  men — the  higher  and 
wiser,  that  they  were  gentlemen. 

These  troubles,  which  were  everywhere  abroad,  reached  us 
even  in  our  quiet  town  of  Norton  Bury.  For  myself,  per- 
sonally, they  touched  me  not,  or,  at  least,  only  kept  fluttering 
like  evil  birds  outside  the  dear  home-tabernacle,  where  I  and 
Patience  sat,  keeping  our  solemn  counsel  together — for  these 
two  years  with  me  had  been  very  hard. 

Though  I  had  to  bear  so  much  bodily  suffering  that  I  was 
seldom  told  of  any  worldly  cares,  still  I  often  fancied  things 
were  going  ill  both  within  and  without  our  doors.  Jael  com- 
plained in  an  under-key  of  stinted  housekeeping,  or  boasted 
aloud  of  her  own  ingenuity  in  making  ends  meet;  and  my 
father's  brow  grew  continually  heavier,  graver,  sterner;  some- 
times so  stern  that  I  dared  not  wage,  what  was,  openly  or  se- 
cretly, the  quiet  but  incessant  crusade  of  my  existence — the 
bringing  back  of  John  Halifax. 

He  still  remained  my  father's  clerk — nay,  I  sometimes 
thought  he  was  even  advancing  in  duties  and  trusts,  for  I 
heard  of  his  being  sent  long  journeys  up  and  down  England 
to  buy  grain — Abel  Fletcher  having  added  to  his  tanning 
business  the  flour-mill  hard  by  whose  lazy  whir  was  so  fa- 
miliar to  John  and  me  in  our  boyhood.  But  of  these  journeys 
my  father  never  spoke;  indeed  he  rarely  mentioned  John  at 
all.  However  he  might  employ  and  even  trust  him  in  busi- 
ness relations,  I  knew  that  in  every  other  way  he  was  inexor- 
able. 

And  John  Halifax  was  as  inexorable  as  he.  No  underhand 
or  clandestine  friendship  would  he  admit — no,  not  even  for 
my  sake.  I  knew  quite  well  that  until  he  could  walk  in 
openly,  honorably,  proudly,  he  never  would  re-enter  my  fa- 
ther's door.  Twice  only  he  had  written  to  me — on  my  two 
birthdays — my  father  himself  giving  me  in  silence  the  un- 
sealed letters.  They  told  me  what  I  already  was  sure  of — 
that  I  held,  and  always  should  hold,  my  steadfast  place  in  his 
friendship.  Nothing  more. 

One  other  fact  I  noticed;  that  a  little  lad,  afterward  dis- 
covered to  be  Jem  Watkins,  to  whom  had  fallen  the  hard 


76  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

working  lot  of  the  lost  Bill,  had  somehow  crept  into  our 
household  as  errand-boy,  or  gardener's  boy,  and  being  "cute," 
and  a  "scholard,"  was  greatly  patronized  by  Jael.  I  noticed, 
too,  that  the  said  Jem,  whenever  he  came  in  my  way,  in  house 
or  garden,  was  the  most  capital  "little  foot-page"  that  ever 
invalid  had,  knowing  intuitively  all  my  needs,  and  serving  me 
with  an  unfailing  devotion  which  quite  surprised  and  puzzled 
me  at  the  time.  It  did  not  afterward. 

Summer  was  passing.  People  began  to  watch  with  anxious 
looks  the  thin  'harvest-fields — as  Jael  often  told  me,  when 
she  came  home  from  her  afternoon  walks.  "It  was  piteous 
to  see  them,"  she  said;  "only  July,  and  the  quartern  loaf 
nearly  three  shillings,  and  meal  four  shillings  a  peck." 

And  then  she  would  glance  at  our  flour-mill,  where  for 
several  days  a  week  the  water-wheel  was  as  quiet  as  on  Sun- 
days; for  my  father  kept  his  grain  locked,  up,  waiting  for 
what  he  wisely  judged  might  be  a  worse  harvest  than  the 
last.  But  Jael,  though  she  said  nothing,  often  looked  at  the 
flour-mill,  and  shook  her  head.  And  after  one  market-day — 
when  she  came  in  rather  "flustered,"  saying  there  had  been  a 
mob  outside  the  mill,  until  "that  young  man,  Halifax,"  had 
gone  out  and  spoken  to  them — she  never  once  allowed  me  to 
take  my  rare  walk  under  the  trees  in  the  Abbey  yard;  nor,  if 
she  could  help  it,  would  she  even  let  me  sit  watching  the  lazy 
Avon  from  the  garden- wall. 

One  Sunday — it  was  the  first  of  August,  for  my  father  had 
just  come  back  from  meeting,  very  much  later  than  usual; 
and  Jael  said  he  had  gone,  as  was  his  usual  custom  on  that  his 
wedding  day  to  the  Friends'  burial-ground  in  St.  Mary's  Lane, 
where,  far  away  from  her  own  kindred  and  people,  my  poor 
young  mother  had  been 'laid:  on  this  one  Sunday  I  began  to 
see  that  things  were  going  wrong.  Abel  Fletcher  sat  at  din- 
ner, wearing  the  heavy,  hard  look  which  had  grown  upon  his 
face,  not  unmingled  with  the  wrinkles  planted  by  physical 
pain.  For,  with  all  his  temperance,  he  could  not  quite  keep 
down  his  hereditary  enemy,  gout;  and  this  week  it  had 
clutched  him.  pretty  hard. 

Dr.  Jessop  came  in,  and  I  stole  away  gladly  enough,,  and  sat 
for  an  hour  in  my  old  place  in  the  garden,  idly  watching  the 
stretch  of  meadow,  pasture,  and  harvest  land.  Noticing,  too, 
more  as  a  pretty  bit  in  the  landscape,  than  as  a  fact  of  vital 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  77 

importance,  in  how  many  places  the  half -ripe  corn  was  already 
cut,  and  piled  in  thinly-scattered  sheaves  over  the  fields. 

After  the  doctor  left  my  father  sent  for  me  and  all  his 
household;  in  the  which,  creeping  humbly  after  the  woman- 
kind, was  now  numbered  the  lad  Jem.  That  Abel  Fletcher 
was  not  quite  himself  was  proved  by  the  fact  that  his  un- 
lighted  pipe  lay  on  the  table,  and  his  afternoon  tankard  of 
ale  sank  from  foam  to  flatness,  untouched. 

He  first  addressed  Jael.  "Woman,  was  it  thee  who  cooked 
the  dinner  to-day?" 

She  gave  a  dignified  affirmative. 

"Thee  must  give  us  no  more  such  dinners.  No  cakes,  no 
pastry  kickshaws,  and  only  wheaten  bread  enough  for  abso- 
lute necessity.  Our  neighbors  shall  not  say  that  Abel 
Fletcher  has  flour  in  his  mill,  and  plenty  in  his  house  while 
there  is  famine  abroad  in  the  land.  So  take  heed." 

"I  do  take  heed,"  answered  Jael,  stanchly.  "  Thee  canst 
not  say  I  waste  a  penny  of  thine.  And  for  myself,  do  I  not 
£ity  the  poor?  On  First-day  a  woman  cried  after  me  about 
wasting  good  flour  in  starch — to-day,  behold!" 

And  with  a  spasmodic  bridling  up,  she  pointed  to  the  bouf- 
fante  which  used  to  stand  up  stiffly  round  her  withered  old 
throat  and  stick  out  in  front  like  a  pouter-pigeon.  Alas!  its 
glory  and  starch  were  alike  departed;  it  now  appeared  nothing 
but  a  heap  of  crumpled  and  yellowish  muslin.  Poor  Jael! 
I  knew  this  was  the  most  heroic  personal  sacrifice  she  could 
have  made,  yet  I  could  not  help  smiling;  even  my  father  did 
the  same. 

"Dost  thee  mock  me,  Abel  Fletcher?"  cried  she,  angrily. 
"Preach  not  to  others  while  the  sin  lies  on  thy  own  head." 

And  I  am  sure  poor  Jael  was  innocent  of  any  jocular  inten- 
tion, as,  advancing  sternly,  she  pointed  to  her  master's  pate, 
where  his  long-worn  powder  was  scarcely  distinguishable  from 
the  snows  of  age.  He  bore  the  assault  gravely  and  unshrink- 
ingly, merely  saying,  "Woman,  peace!" 

"Nor  while,"  pursued  Jael,  driven  apparently  to  the  last 
and  most  poisoned  arrow  in  her  quiver  of  wrath — "while  the 
poor  folk  be  starving  in  scores  about  Norton  Bury,  and  the 
rich  folk  there  will  not  sell  their  wheat  tinder  famine  price. 
Take  heed  to  thyself,  Abel  Fletcher." 

My  father  winced,  either  from  a  twinge  of  gout  or  con- 
science; and  then  Jael  suddenly  ceased  the  attack,  sent  the 


78  JOHN    HALIFAX.    GENTLEMAN. 

other  servants  out  of  the  room,  and  tended  her  master  as  care- 
fully as  if  she  had  not  insulted  him.  In  his  fits  of  gout,  my 
father,  unlike  most  men,  became  the  quieter  and  easier  to 
manage,  the  more  he  suffered.  He  had  a  long  fit  of  pain, 
which  left  him  considerably  exhausted.  When,  being  at  last 
relieved,  he  and  I  were  sitting  in  the  room  alone,  he  said  to 
me: 

"Phineas,  the  tan-yard  has  thriven  ill  of  late,  and  I  thought 
the  mill  would  make  up  for  it.  But  if  it  will  not,  it  will  not. 
Wouldst  thee  mind,  my  son,  being  left  a  little  poorer  when  I 
am  gone?" 

"Father!" 

"Well,  then,  in  a  few  days  I  will  begin  selling  my  wheat, 
as  that  lad  has  advised  and  begged  me  to  do  these  weeks  past. 
He  is  a  sharp  lad,  and  I  am  getting  old.  Perhaps  he  is 
right." 

"Who  father?"  I  asked,  rather  hypocritically. 

"Thee  knowest  well  enough — John  Halifax." 

I  thought  it  best  to  say  no  more;  but  I  never  let  go  one 
thread  of  hope  which  could  draw  me  nearer  to  my  fondest 
desire. 

On  the  Monday  morning  my  father  went  to  the  tan-yard  as 
usual.  I  spent  the  day  in  my  bed-room,  which  looked  over 
the  garden,  where  I  saw  nothing  but  the  waving  of  the  trees 
and  the  birds  hopping  over  the  smooth  grass;  heard  nothing 
but  the  soft  chime,  hour  after  hour,  of  the  Abbey  bells. 
What  was  passing  in  the  world,  in  the  town,  or  even  in  the 
next  street,  was  to  me  faint  as  dreams. 

At  dinner-time  I  rose,  went  down-stairs,  and  waited  for  my 
father;  waited  one,  two,  three  hours.  It  was  very  strange. 
He  never  by  any  chance  overstated  his  time  without  sending 
a  message  home.  So,  after  some  consideration  as  to  whether 
I  dare  encroach  upon  his  formal  habits  so  much,  and  after 
much  advice  from  Jael,  who  betrayed  more  anxiety  than  was 
at  all  warranted  by  the  cause  she  assigned,  viz.,  the  spoiled 
dinner,  I  despatched  Jem  Watkins  to  the  tan-yard  to  see  after 
his  master. 

He  came  back  with  ill  news.  The  lane  leading  to  the  tan- 
yard  was  blocked  up  with  a  wild  mob.  Even  the  stolid, 
starved  patience  of  our  Norton  Bury  poor  had  come  to  an 
end  at  last — they  had  followed  the  example  of  many  others, 
There  was  a  bread-riot  in  the  town. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  79 

God  only  knows  how  terrible  those  "riots"  were;  when  the 
people  rose  in  desperation,  not  from  some  delusion  of  crazy, 
blood-thirsty  "patriotism,"  but  to  get  food  for  themselves, 
their  wives,  and  children.  God  only  knows  what  madness 
was  in  each  individual  heart  of  that  concourse  of  poor 
wretches,  styled  '"the  mob,"  when  every  man  took  up  arms, 
certain  that  there  were  before  him  but  two  alternatives,  starv- 
ing or  hanging. 

The  riot  here  was  scarcely  universal.  Norton  Bury  was 
not  a  large  place,  and  had  always  abundance  of  small-pox  and 
fevers  to  keep  the  poor  down  numerically.  Jem  said  it  was 
chiefly  about  our  mill  and  our  tan-yard  that  the  disturbance 
lay. 

"And  where  is  my  father?" 

Jem  "didn't  know,"  and  looked  very  much  as  if  he  didn't 
care. 

"Jael,  somebody  must  go  at  once,  and  find  my  father." 

"I  am  going,"  said  Jael,  who  had  already  put  on  her  cloak 
and  hood.  Of  course,  despite  all  her  opposition,  I  went  too. 

The  tan-yard  was  deserted;  the  mob  had  divided  and  gone, 
one-half  to  our  mill,  the  rest  to  another  that  was  lower  down 
the  river.  I  asked  of  a  poor  frightened  bark-cutter  if  she 
knew  where  my  father  was?  She  thought  he  was  gone  for  the 
"millingtary,"  but  Mr.  Halifax  was  at  the  mill  now — she 
hoped  no  harm  would  come  to  Mr.  Halifax. 

Even  in  that  moment  of  alarm  I  felt  a  sense  of  pleasure. 
I  had  not  been  in  the  tan-yard  for  nearly  three  years.  I  did 
not  know  John  had  come  already  to  be  called  "Mr.  Halifax." 

There  was  nothing  for  me  but  to  wait  here  till  my  father 
returned.  He  could  not  surely  be  so  insane  as  to  go  to  the 
mill — and  John  was  there.  Terribly  was  my  heart  divided, 
but  my  duty  lay  with  my  father. 

Jael  sat  down  in  the  shed,  or  marched  restlessly  between 
the  tan-pits.  I  went  to  the  end  of  the  yard,  and  looked  down 
toward  the  mill.  What  a  half -hour  it  was! 

At  last,  exhausted,  I  sat  down  on  the  bark-heap  where  John 
and  I  had  once  sat  as  lads.  He  must  now  be  more  than 
twenty;  I  wondered  if  he  were  altered. 

"Oh,  David,  David!"  I  thought,  as  I  listened  eagerly  for 
any  sounds  abroad  in  the  town;  "what  should  I  do  if  any 
harm  came  to  thee?" 

This  minute  I  heard  a  footstep  crossing  the  yard.     No,  it 


80  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

was  not  my  father's — it  was  firmer,  quicker,  younger.  I 
sprang  from  the  bark-heap. 

"Phinea-j!" 

"John!" 

What  a  grasp  that  was — both  hands!  and  how  fondly  and 
proudly  I  looked  up  in  his  face — the  still  boyish  face.  But 
the  figure  was  quite  that  of  a  man,  now. 

For  a  minute  we  forgot  ourselves  in  our  joy,  and  then  he 
let  go  my  hands,  saying  hurriedly: 

"Where  is  your  father?" 

"I  wish  I  knew!     Gone  for  the  soldiers,  they  say." 

"No,  not  that — he  would  never  do  that.  I  must  go  and 
look  for  him.  Good-by." 

"Nay,  dear  John!" 

"Can't — can't/'  said  he,  firmly,  "not  while  your  father  for- 
bids. I  must  go."  And  he  was  gone. 

Though  my  heart  rebelled,  my  conscience  defended  him; 
marvelling  how  it  was  that  he  who  had  never  known  his  fa- 
ther, should  uphold  so  sternly  the  duty  of  filial  obedience.  I 
think  it  ought  to  act  as  a  solemn  warning  to  those  who  exact 
so  much  from  the  mere  fact  and  name  of  parenthood,  without 
having  in  any  way  fulfilled  its  duties,  that  orphans  from  birth 
often  revere  the  ideal  of  that  bond  far  more  than  those  who 
have  known  it  in  realit}r.  Always  excepting  those  children 
to  whose  blessed  lot  it  has  fallen  to  have  the  ideal  realized. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  saw  him  and  my  father  enter  the  tan- 
yard  together.  He  was  talking  earnestly,  and  my  father  was 
listening — ay,  listening — and  to  John  Halifax!  But  what- 
ever the  argument  was  it  failed  to  move  him.  Greatly  troub- 
led, but  stanch  as  a  rock,  my  old  father  stood,  resting  his  lame 
foot  on  a  heap  of  hides.  I  went  to  meet  him. 

"Phineas,"  said  John,  anxiously,  "come  and  help  me.  "No, 
Abel  Fletcher,"  he  added,  rather  proudly,  in  reply  to  a  sharp 
suspicious  glance  at  us  both,  "your  son  and  I  only  met  ten 
minutes  ago,  and  have  scarcely  exchanged  a  word.  But  we 
cannot  waste  time  over  that  matter  now.  Phinea.-'.  help  me 
to  persuade  your  father  to  eave  his  property.  He  will  not  call 
for  the  aid  of  the  law  because  he  is  a  Friend.  Besides,  for 
the  same  reason  it  might  be  useless  asking." 

"Verily!"  said  my  father,  with  a  bitter  and  meaning  smile. 

"But  he  might  get  his  own  men  to  defend  his  property,  and 
need  not  do  what  he  is  bent  on  doing — go  to  the  mill  himself." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  81 

"Surely,"  was  all  Abel  Fletcher  said,  planting  his  oaken 
stick  firmly,  as  firmly  as  his  will,  and  taking  his  way  to  the 
river-side,  in  the  direction  of  the  mill. 

I  caught  his  arm — "Father,  don't  go." 

"My  son,"  said  he,  turning  on  me  one  of  his  "iron  looks," 
as  I  used  to  call  them — tokens  of  a  nature  that  might  have 
run  molten  once,  and  had  settled  into  a  hard,  molded  mass, 
of  which  nothing  could  afterward  alter  one  form  or  erase  one 
line.  "My  son,  no  opposition.  Any  who  try  that  with  me  will 
fail.  If  those  fellows  had  waited  two  days  more  I  would  have 
sold  all  my  wheat  at  a  hundred  shillings  the  quarter;  now  they 
shall  have  nothing.  It  will  teach  them  wisdom  another  time. 
Get  thee  safe  home,  Phineas,  my  son;  Jael,  go  thou  likewise." 

But  neither  went.  John  held  me  back  as  I  was  following 
my  father. 

"He  will  do  it,  Phineas,  and  I  suppose  he  must.  Please 
God,  I'll  take  care  no  harm  touches  him — but  you  go  home." 

That  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Fortunately  the  time  was 
too  brief  for  argument,  so  the  discussion  soon  ended.  He  fol- 
lowed my  father,  and  I  followed  him.  For  Jael,  she  disap- 
peared. 

There  was  a  private  path  from  the  tan-yard  to  the  mill, 
along  the  river-side;  by  this  we  went  in  silence.  When  we 
reached  the  spot,  it  was  deserted;  but  further  down  the  river 
we  heard  a  scuffling,  and  saw  a  number  of  men  breaking  down 
our  garden-wall. 

"They  think  he  is  gone  home,"  whispered  John;  "we'll 
get  in  here  the  safer.  Quick,  Phineas." 

We  crossed  the  little  bridge;  John  took  a  key  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  let  us  into  the  mill  by  a  small  door — the  only  en- 
trance, and  that  was  barred  and  trebly  barred  within.  It  had 
good  need  to  be,  in  such  times. 

The  mill  was  a  queer,  musty,  silent  place,  especially  the 
machinery  room,  the  sole  flooring  of  which  was  the  dark, 
dangerous  stream.  We  waited  there  a  good  while — it  was  the 
safest  place,  having  no  windows.  Then  we  followed  my 
father  to  the  top  story,  where  he  kept  his  bags  of  grain. 
There  were  very  many;  enough,  in  these  times,  to  make  a 
large  fortune  by — a  cursed  fortune,  wrung  out  of  human 
lives. 

"Oh!  how  could  my  father " 

6 


82  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Hush!"  whispered  John,  "it  was  for  his  son's  sake,  you 
know." 

But  while  we  stood,  and  with  a  meaning,  but  rather  grim 
smile,  Abel  Fletcher  counted  his  bags,  worth  almost  as  much 
as  bags  of  gold — we  heard  a  hammering  at  the  door  below. 
The  rioters  were  come. 

Miserable  "rioters?"  A  handful  of  weak,  starved  men, 
pelting  us  with  stones  and  words.  One  pistol-shot  might 
have  routed  them  all;  but  my  father's  doctrine  of  non-resis- 
tance forbade.  Small  as  their  force  seemed,  there  was  some- 
thing at  once  formidable  and  pitiful  in  the  low  howl  that 
reached  us  at  times. 

"Bring  out  the  bags!     Us  mun  have  bread!" 

"Throw  down  thy  corn,  Abel  Fletcher!" 

"Abel  Fletcher  will  throw  it  down  to  ye,  ye  knaves,"  said 
my  father,  leaning  out  of  the  upper  window;  while  a  sound, 
half  curses,  half  cheers  of  triumph,  answered  him  from  be- 
low. 

"That  is  well!"  exclaimed  John,  eagerly.  "Thank  you — 
thank  you,  Mr.  Fletcher — I  knew  you  would  yield  at  last." 

"Didst  thee,  lad?"  said  my  father,  stopping  short. 

"Not  because  they  forced  you — not  to  save  your  life — but 
because  it  was  right." 

"Help  me  with  this  bag,"  was  all  the  reply. 

It  was  a  great  weight,  but  not  too  great  for  John's  young 
arm,  nervous  and  strong.  He  hauled  it  up. 

"Now,  open  the  window — dash  the  panes  through — it  mat- 
ters not.  On  to  the  window,  I  tell  thee." 

"But  if  I  do,  the  bag  will  fall  into  the  river.  You  can- 
not— oh,  no — you  cannot  mean  that!" 

"Haul  it  up  to  the  window,  John  Halifax." 

But  John  remained  immovable. 

"I  must  do  it  myself,  then;"  and  in  the  desperate  effort  he 
made  somehow  the  bag  of  grain  fell,  and  fell  on  his  lame  foot. 
Tortured  into  frenzy  with  the  pain — or  else,  I  will  still  be- 
lieve, my  old  father  would  not  have  done  such  a  deed — 
his  failing  strength  seemed  doubled  and  trebled.  In  an  in- 
stant more  he  had  got  the  bag  half  through  the  window,  and 
the  next  sound  we  heard  was  its  heavy  splash  in  the  river 
below. 

Flung  into  the  river,  the  precious  wheat,  and  in  the  very 
sight  of  the  famished  rioters!  A  howl  of  fury  and  despair 
arose.  Some  plunged  into  the  water,  ere  the  eddies  left  by 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  88 

the  falling  mass  had  ceased — but  it  was  too  late.  A  sharp 
substance  in  the  river's  bed  had  cut  the  bag,  and  we  saw 
thrown  up  to  the  surface,  and  whirled  down  the  Avon,  thous- 
ands of  dancing  grains.  A  few  of  the  men  swam,  or  waded 
after  them,  clutching  a  handful  here  or  there — but  by  the 
mill  pool  the  river  ran  swift,  and  the  wheat  had  all  soon  disap- 
peared, except  what  remained  in  the  bag  when  it  was  drawn 
on  shore.  Over  even  that  they  fought  like  demons. 

We  could  not  look  at  them — John  and  I.  He  put  his  hand 
over  his  eyes,  muttering  the  Name  that,  young  man  as  he 
was,  I  have  never  yet  heard  irreverently  and  thoughtlessly  on 
his  lips.  It  was  a  sight  that  would  move  any  one  to  cry  for 
pity  unto  the  Great  Father  of  the  human  family. 

Abel  Fletcher  sat  on  his  remaining  bags,  in  an  exhaustion 
that  I  think  was  not  all  physical  pain.  The  paroxysm  of 
anger  past,  he,  ever  a  just  man,  could  not  fail  to  be  struck 
with  what  he  had  done.  He  seemed  subdued,  even  to  some- 
thing like  remorse. 

John  looked  at  him,  and  looked  away.  For  a  minute  he 
listened  in  silence  to  the  shouting  outside,  and  then  turned 
to  my  father. 

"Sir,  you  must  come  now.  Not  a  second  to  lose — they  will 
fire  the  mill  next." 

"Let  them." 

"Let  them?  and  Phineas  is  here!" 

My  poor  father!     He  rose  at  once. 

We  got  him  down-stairs — he  was  very  lame — his  ruddy 
face  all  drawn  and  white  with  pain;  but  he  did  not  speak  one 
word  of  opposition,  or  utter  a  groan  of  complaint. 

The  flour-mill  was  built  on  piles,  in  the  center  of  the  nar- 
row river.  It  was  only  a  few  steps  of  bridge-work  to  either 
bank.  The  little  door  was  on  the  Norton  Bury  side,  and  was 
hid  from  the  opposite  shore,  where  the  rioters  had  now  col- 
lected. In  a  minute  we  had  crept  forth,  and  dashed  out  of 
sight,  in  the  narrow  path  which  had  been  made  from  the  mill 
to  the  tan-yard. 

"Will  you  take  my  arm?  we  must  get  on  fast." 

"Home?"  said  my  father,  as  John  led  him  passively  along. 

"No,  sir,  not  home;  they  are  there  before  you.  Your  life's 
not  safe  an  hour — unless,  indeed,  you  get  soldiers  to  guard  it." 

Abel  Fletcher  gave  a  decided  negative.  The  stem  old 
Quaker  held  to  his  principles  still. 


84  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

"Then  you  must  hide  for  a  time — both  of  you.  Come  to 
my  room.  You  will  be  secure  there.  Urge  him,  Phineas — 
for  your  own  sake  and  his  own." 

But  my  poor  broken-down  father  needed  no  urging. 
Grasping  more  tightly  both  John's  arm  and  mine,  which,  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  leaned  upon,  he  submitted  to  be 
led  whither  we  chose.  So,  after  this  long  interval  of  time,  I 
once  more  stood  in  Sally  Watkins'  small  attic,  where,  ever 
since  I  first  brought  him  there,  John  Halifax  had  lived. 

Sally  knew  not  of  our  entrance;  she  was  out  watching  the 
rioters.  No  one  saw  us  but  Jem,  and  Jem's  honor  was  safe 
as  a  rock.  I  knew  that  in  the  smile  with  which  he  pulled  off 
his  cap  to  "Mr.  Halifax." 

"Now,"  said  John,  hastily  smoothing  his  bed,  so  that  my 
father  might  lie  down,  and  wrapping  his  cloak  round  me, 
"you  must  both  be  very  still.  You  will  likely  have  to  spend 
the  night  here.  Jem  shall  bring  you  a  light  and  supper. 
You  will  make  yourself  easy,  Abel  Fletcher?" 

"Ay."  It  was  strange  to  see  how  decidedly,  yet  respect- 
fully, John  spoke,  and  how  quietly  my  father  answered. 

"And  Phineas" — he  put  his  arm  round  my  shoulder  in  his 
old  way — "you  will  take  care  of  yourself.  Are  you  any 
stronger  than  you  used  to  be?" 

I  clasped  his  hand,  without  reply.  My  heart  melted  to 
hear  that  tender  accent,  so  familiar  once.  All  was  happen- 
ing for  the  best,  if  it  only  gave  me  back  David. 

"Now  good-by — I  must  be  off." 

"Whither?"  said  my  father,  rousing  himself. 

"To  try  and  save  the  house  and  the  tan-yard."  I  fear  we 
must  give  up  the  mill.  No,  don't  hold  me,  Phineas.  I  run 
no  risk,  everybody  knows  me.  Besides,  I  am  young.  There! 
see  after  your  father.  I  shall  come  back  in  good  time." 

He  grasped  my  hands  warmly,  then  unloosed  them,  and  I 
heard  his  step  descending  the  staircase.  The  room  seemed  to 
darken  when  he  went  away. 

The  evening  passed  very  slowly.  My  father,  exhausted 
with  pain,  lay  on  the  bed  and  dozed.  I  sat  watching  the  sky 
over  the  housetops,  which  met  in  the  old  angles,  with  the 
same  blue  peeps  between.  I  half  forgot  all  the  day's  events — 
it  seemed  but  two  weeks,  instead  of  two  years  ago,  that  John 
and  I  had  sat  in  this  attic-window,  conning  our  Shakespeare 
for  the  first  time. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  85 

Ere  twilight,  I  examined  John's  room.  It  was  a  good  deal 
changed;  the  furniture  was  improved;  a  score  of  ingenious  lit- 
tle contrivances  made  the  tiny  attic  into  a  cosy  bed-chamber. 
One  corner  was  full  of  shelves  laden  with  books,  chiefly  of  a 
scientific  and  practical  nature.  John's  taste  did  not  lead  him 
into  the  current  literature  of  the  day;  Cowper,  Akenside  and 
Peter  Pindar,  were  alike  indifferent  to  him.  I  found  among 
his  books  no  poet  but  Shakespeare. 

He  evidently  still  practiced  his  old  mechanical  arts.  There 
was  lying  in  the  window  a  telescope — the  cylinder  made  of 
pasteboard — into  which  the  lenses  were  ingeniously  fitted!  A 
rough  telescope-stand  of  common  deal,  stood  on  the  ledge  of 
the  roof,  from  which  the  field  of  view  must  have  been  satis- 
factory enough  to  the  young  astronomer.  Other  fragments 
of  skillful  handiwork,  chiefly  meant  for  machinery  on  a 
Lilliputian  scale,  were  strewn  about  the  floor;  on  a  chair,  just 
as  he  had  left  it  that  morning,  stood  a  loom,  very  small  in  size, 
but  perfect  in  its  neat  workmanship,  with  a  few  threads 
already  woven,  making  some  fabric  not  so  very  unlike  cloth. 

I  had  gone  over  all  these  things,  without  noticing  that  my 
father  was  awake,  and  that  his  sharp  eye  had  observed  them 
likewise. 

"The  lad  works  hard,"  said  he,  half  to  "himself .  "He  has 
useful  hands,  and  a  clear  head."  I  smiled,  but  took  no  notice 
whatever. 

Evening  began  to  close  in — less  peacefully  than  usual — 
over  Norton  Bury;  for,  whenever  I  ventured  to  open  the  win- 
dow, we  heard  unusual  and  ominous  sounds  abroad  in  the 
town.  I  trembled  inwardly.  But  John  was  prudent  as  well 
as  brave;  besides,  "everybody  knew  him."  Surely  he  was 
safe. 

Faithfully  at  supper-time  Jem  entered.  But  he  could  tell 
us  no  news;  he  had  kept  watch  all  the  time  on  the  staircase, 
by  desire  of  "Mr.  Halifax,"  so  he  informed  me.  My  father 
asked  110  questions,  not  even  about  his  mill.  From  his  look, 
sometimes  I  fancied  he  yet  beheld  in  fancy  these  starving 
men  fighting  over  the  precious  food,  destroyed  so  willfully — 
nay,  wickedly.  Heaven  forgive  me,  his  son,  if  I  too  harshly 
use  the  word;  for  I  think,  till  the  day  of  his  death,  that  cruel 
sight  never  wholly  vanished  from  the  eyes  of  my  poor  father. 

Jem  seemed  talkatively  inclined.   He  observed  that  "mas- 


86  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ter  was  looking  sprack  agin;  and  warn't  this  a  tidy  room, 
like?" 

I  praised  it;  and  supposed  his  mother  was  better  off  now. 

"Ay,  she  be.  Mr.  Halifax  pays  her  a  good  rent;  and  she 
sees  'im  made  comfortable.  Not  that  he  wants  much,  being 
out  pretty  much  all  day." 

"What  is  he  busy  about  of  nights?" 

"Laming,"  said  Jem,  with  an  awed  look.  "He's  terrible 
wise.  But  for  all  that,  sometimes  he'll  teach  Charley  and  me 
a  bit  o'  the  Readamadeasy."  (Reading-made-easy,  1  suppose 
John's  hopeful  pupil  meant).  "He's  very  kind  to  we,  and  to 
mother,  too.  Her  says,  that  her  do,  Mr.  Halifax " 

"Send  the  fellow  away,  Phineas,"  muttered  my  father, 
turning  his  face  to  the  wall. 

I  obeyed.  But  first  I  asked  in  a  whisper,  if  Jem  had  any 
idea  when  "Mr.  Halifax"  would  be  back. 

"He  said,  maybe  not  till  morning.  Them's  bad  folk  about. 
He  was  going  to  stop  all  night,  either  at  your  house  or  at  the 
tan-yard,  for  fear  of  a  blaze." 

The  word  made  my  father  start;  for  in  these  times  well  we 
knew  what  poor  folk  meant  by  "a  blaze." 

"My  house — my  tan-yard — I  must  get  up  this  instant — 
help  me.  He  ought  to  come  back — that  lad  Halifax.  There's 
a  score  of  my  men  at  hand — Wilkes  and  Johnson,  and  Jacob 
Baines — I  say,  Phineas But  thee  know'st  nothing." 

He  tried  to  dress,  and  to  drag  on  his  heavy  shoes;  but  fell 
back,  sick  with  exhaustion  and  pain.  I  made  him  lie  down 
again  on  the  bed. 

"Phineas,  lad,"  said  he,  brokenly,  "thy  old  father  is  getting 
as  helpless  as  thee." 

So  we  kept  watch  together,  all  the  night  through;  some- 
times dozing,  sometimes  waking  up  at  some  slight  noise  be- 
low, or  at  the  flicker  of  the  long-wicked  candle,  which  fear 
converted  into  the  glare  of  some  incendiary  fire — doubtless 
our  own  home.  Now  and  then  I  heard  my  father  mutter 
something  about  "the  lad  being  safe."  I  said  nothing.  I 
only  prayed. 

Thus  the  night  wore  away. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  87 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

After  midnight — I  know  not  how  long,  for  I  lost  count  of 
the  hours  by  the  Abbey  chimes,  and  our  light  had  gone  out — 
after  midnight  I  heard  by  my  father's  breathing  that  he  was 
asleep.  I  was  thankful  to  see  it  for  his  sake,  and  also  for 
another  reason. 

I  could  not  sleep — all  my  faculties  were  preternaturally 
alive;  my  weak  body  and  timid  mind  became  strong  and 
active,  able  to  compass  anything.  For  that  one  night,  at 
least,  I  felt  myself  a  man. 

My  father  was  a  very  sound  sleeper.  I  knew  nothing 
would  disturb  him  till  daylight;  therefore  my  divided  duty 
was  at  an  end.  I  left  him,  and  crept  down-stairs  into  Sally 
Watkins'  kitchen.  It  was  silent,  only  the  faithful  warder, 
Jem,  dozed  over  the  dull  fire.  I  touched  him  on  the  shoul- 
der— at  which  he  collared  me  and  nearly  knocked  me  down. 

"Beg  pardon,  Mr.  Phineas — hope  I  didn't  hurt'ee,  sir?" 
cried  he,  all  but  whimpering;  for  Jem,  a  big  lad  of  fifteen, 
was  the  most  tender-hearted  fellow  imaginable.  "I  thought 
it  were  some  of  them  folk  that  Mr.  Halifax  ha'  gone  among/' 

"Where  is  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"  Doan't  know,  sir — wish  I  did!  wouldn't  be  long  a  finding 
out,  though — on'y  he  says:  'Jem,  you  stop  'ere  wi'  they"3 
(pointing  his  thumb  up  the  staircase).  "So,  Master  Phineas, 
I  stop." 

And  Jem  settled  himself,  with  a  doggedly  obedient,  but 
most  dissatisfied  air,  down  by  the  fire-place.  It  was  evident 
nothing  would  move  him  thence;  so  he  was  as  safe  a  guard 
over  my  poor  father's  slumber  as  the  mastiff  in  the  tan-yard, 
who  was  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  as  docile  as  a  child.  My  last 
lingering  hesitation  ended. 

"Jem,  lend  me  your  coat  and  hat.  I'm  going  out  into 
the  town." 

Jem  was  so  astonished  that  he  stood  with  open  mouth 
while  I  took  the  said  garments  from  him,  and  unbolted  the 
door.  At  last  it  seemed  to  occur  to  him  that  he  ought  to 
intercept  me. 

"But,  sir,  Mr.  Halifax  said " 


88  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"I'm  going  to  look  for  Mr.  Halifax." 

And  I  escaped  outside.  Anything  beyond  his  literal  duty 
did  not  strike  the  faithful  Jem.  He  stood  on  the  door-sill 
and  gazed  after  me  with  a  hopeless  expression. 

"I  s'pose  you  mun  have  your  way,  sir;  but  Mr.  Halifax 
said,  'Jem,  you  stop  y'ere,' — and  y'ere  I  stop." 

He  went  in,  and  I  heard  him  bolting  the  door,  with  a  sul- 
len determination,  as  if  he  would  have  kept  guard  against 
it — waiting  for  John — until  doomsday. 

I  stole  along  the  dark  alley  into  the  street.  It  was  very 
silent — I  need  not  have  borrowed  Jem's  exterior  in  order  to 
creep  through  a  throng  of  maddened  rioters.  There  was 
no  sign  of  any  such,  except  that  under  one  of  the  three  oil- 
lamps  that  lit  the  night  darkness  of  Norton  Bury,  lay  a  few 
smoldering  hanks  of  hemp,  well  resined.  They,  then,  had 
thought  of  that  dreadful  engine  of  destruction — fire.  Had 
my  terrors  been  true?  Our  house — and  perhaps  John  within 
it! 

On  I  ran,  speeded  by  a  dull  murmur,  which  I  fancied  I 
heard;  and  still  there  was  no  one  in  the  street — no  one  ex- 
cept the  Abbey-watchman  lounging  in  his  box.  I  roused 
him,  and  asked  if  all  was  safe? — where  were  the  rioters? 

"What  rioters?'"' 

"At  Abel  Fletcher's  mill;  they  may  be  at  his  house 
now " 

"Ay,  I  think  they  be." 

"And  will  not  one  man  in  the  town  help  him?  no  con- 
stables— no  law?" 

"Oh!  he's  a  Quaker;  the  law  don't  help  Quakers." 

That  was  the  truth — the  hard,  grinding  truth — in  those 
days.  Liberty,  justice,  were  idle  names  to  Non-conform- 
ists of  every  kind;  and  all  they  knew  of  the  glorious  con- 
stitution of  English  law  was  when  its  iron  hand  was  turned 
against  them. 

I  had  forgotten  this:  bitterly  I  remembered  it  now.  So, 
wasting  no  more  words,  I  flew  along  the  church-yard  until 
I  saw,  shining  against  the  boles  of  the  chestnut-trees,  a  red 
light.  It  was  one  of  the  hempen  torches.  Now,  at  last,  I 
had  got  into  the  midst  of  that  small  body  of  men,  uthe 
rioters." 

They  were  a  mere  handful — not  above  two  score — appar- 
ently the  relics  of  the  band  which  had  attacked  ihe  mill, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  89 

joined  with  a  few  plow-lads  from  the  country  around.  But 
they  were  desperate;  they  had  come  up  the  Coltham  road 
so  quietly  that  except  this  faint  murmur,  neither  I  nor  any 
one  in  the  town  could  have  told  they  were  near.  Wherever 
they  had  been  ransacking,  as  yet  they  had  not  attacked  my 
father's  house;  it  stood  up  on  the  other  side  the  road — barred, 
black,  silent. 

I  heard  a  muttering — "Th'  old  man  bean't  there." 

"Nobody  knows  where  he  be."  No,  thank  God! 

"Be  us  all  y'ere?"  said  the  man  with  the  torch,  holding 
it  up  so  as  to  see  round  him.  It  was  well  then  that  I  ap- 
peared as  Jem  Watkins.  But  no  one  noticed  me,  except 
one  man,  who  skulked  behind  a  tree,  and  of  whom  I  was 
rather  afraid,  as  he  was  apparently  intent  on  watching. 

"Ready,  lads?    Now  for  the  resin!    Blaze  'un  out!" 

But  in  the  eager  scuffle  the  torch,  the  only  one  alight, 
was  knocked  down  and  trodden  out.  A  volley  of  oaths  arose, 
though  whose  fault  it  was  no  one  seemed  to  know;  but  I 
missed  my  man  from  behind  the  tree — nor  found  him  till  after 
the  angry  throng  had  rushed  on  to  the  nearest  lamp.  One 
of  them  was  left  behind,  standing  close  to  our  own  railings. 
He  looked  round  to  see  if  none  were  by,  and  then  sprang 
over  the  gate.  Dark  as  it  was,  I  thought  I  recognized  him. 

"John?" 

"Phineas?"  He  was  beside  me  in  a  bound.  "How  could 
you  do " 

"I  could  do  anything  to-night.  But  you  are  safe;  no  one 
has  harmed  you?  Oh,  thank  God,  you  are  not  hurt!" 

And  I  clung  to  his  arm — my  friend,  whom  I  had  missed 
so  long,  so  sorely. 

He  held  me  tight — his  heart  felt  as  mine,  only  more 
silently. 

"Now,  Phineas,  we  have  a  minute's  time.  I  must  have 
you  safe — we  must  go  into  the  house." 

"Who  is  there?" 

"Jael;  she  is  as  good  as  a  host  of  constables;  she  has  braved 
the  fellows  once  to-night,  but  they're  back  again,  or  will 
be  directlv." 

"And  the  mill?" 

"Safe,  as  yet;  I  have  had  three  of  the  tan-yard  men  there 
since  yesterday  morning,  though  your  father  did  not  know. 
I  have  been  going  to  and  fro  all  night  between  there  and 


90  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

here,  waiting  till  the  rioters  should  come  back  from  the  Severn 
Mills.    Hist!  here  they  are — I  say,  Jael?" 

He  tapped  at  the  window.  In  a  few  seconds  Jael  had  un- 
barred the  door,  let  us  in,  and  closed  it  again  securely,  mount- 
ing guard  behind  it  with  something  that  looked  very  like 
my  father's  pistols,  though  I  would  not  discredit  her  among 
our  peaceful  Society  by  positively  stating  the  fact. 

"Bravo!"  said  John,  when  we  stood  altogether  in  the  barri- 
caded house,  and  heard  the  threatening  murmur  of  voices 
and  feet  outside.  "Bravo,  Jael!  The  wife  of  Heber  the 
Kenite  was  no  braver  woman  than  you!" 

She  looked  gratified,  and  followed  John  obediently  from 
room  to  room. 

"I  have  done  all  as  thee  bade  me — thee  art  a  sensible  lad, 
John  Halifax.  We  are  secure,  I  think." 

Secure?  bolts  and  bars  secure  against  fire?  For  that  was 
threatening  us  now. 

"They  can't  mean  it — surely  they  can't  mean  it,"  repeated 
John,  as  the  cry  of  "Burn  'un  out!"  rose  louder  and  louder. 

But  they  did  mean  it.  From  the  attic  window  we 
watched  them  light  torch  after  torch,  sometimes  throwing 
one  at  the  house — but  it  fell  harmless  against  the  stanch 
oaken  door,  and  blazed  itself  out  on  our  stone  steps.  All 
it  did  was  to  show  more  plainly  than  even  daylight  had  shown, 
the  gaunt,  ragged  forms  and  pinched  faces,  furious  with 
famine.  John,  as  well  as  I,  recoiled  at  that  miserable  sight. 

"I'll  speak  to  them,"  he  said.  "Unbar  the  window,  Jael;" 
and  before  I  could  hinder,  he  was  leaning  right  out,  "Halloo, 
there!" 

At  his  loud  and  commanding  voice  a  wave  of  upturned 
faces  surged  forward,  expectant. 

"My  men,  do  you  know  what  you  are  about?  To  burn 
down  a  gentleman's  house  is — hanging." 

There  was  a  hush,  and  then  a  shout  of  derision. 
"Not  a  Quaker's!  nobody'll  get  hanged  for  burning  out  a 
Quaker!" 

"That  be  true  enough,"  muttered  Jael  between  her  teeth. 
"We  must  e'en  fight,  as  Mordecai's  people  fought,  hand  to 
hand,  until  they  slew  their  enemies." 

"Fight!"  repeated  John,  half  to  himself,  as  he  stood  at 
the  now  closed  window,  against  which  more  than  one  blazing 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  91 

torch  began  to  rattle.  "Fight — with  these?  What  are  you 
doing,  Jael?" 

For  she  had  taken  down  a  large  Book — the  last  Book  in 
the  house  she  would  have  taken  under  less  critical  circum- 
stances, and  with  it  was  trying  to  stop  up  a  broken  pane. 

"No,  my  good  Jael,  not  this;"  and  he  carefully  replaced 
the  volume;  that  volume  in  which  he  might  have  read,  as 
day  after  day,  and  year  after  year,  we  Christians  generally 
do  read,  such  plain  words  as  these:  "Love  your  enemies;" 
"bless  them  that  curse  you;"  "pray  for  them  that  despitefully 
use  you  and  persecute  you." 

A  minute  or  two  John  stood  with  his  hand  on  the  Book, 
thinking.  Then  he  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"Phineas,  I'm  going  to  try  a  new  plan — at  least,  one  so 
old  that  it's  almost  new.  Whether  it  succeeds  or  no,  you'll 
bear  me  witness  to  your  father  that  I  did  it  for  the  best,  and 
did  it  because  I  thought  it  right.  Now  for  it." 

To  my  horror,  he  threw  up  the  window  wide,  and  leaned 
out. 

"My  men,  I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  roaring  sea.  The 
only  answer  was  a  shower  of  missiles,  which  missed  their 
aim.  The  rioters  were  too  far  off — our  spiked  iron  railings, 
eight  feet  high  or  more,  being  a  barrier  which  none  had  yet 
ventured  to  climb.  But  at  length  one  random  stone  hit 
John  on  the  chest. 

I  pulled  him  in,  but  he  declared  he  was  not  hurt.  Ter- 
rified, I  implored  him  not  to  risk  his  life. 

"Life  is  not  always  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of,"  said 
he,  gently.  "Don't  be  afraid— I  shall  corne  to  no  harm.  But 
I  must  do  what  1  think  right,  if  it  is  to  be  done." 

While  he  spoke,  I  could  hardly  hear  him  for  the  bellow- 
ings  outside.  More  savage  still  grew  the  cry: 

"Burn  'em  out!  burn  'em  out!  They  be  only  Quakers!" 

"There's  not  a  minute  to  lose — stop — let  me  think — Jaei, 
is  that  a  pistol?" 

"Loaded,"  she  said,  handing  it  over  to  him  with  a  kind 
of  stern  delight.  Certainly,  Jael  was  not  meant  to  be  a 
Friend. 

John  ran  down-stairs,  and  before  I  guessad  bis  purpose, 
had  unbolted  the  hall-door,  and  stood  on  the  flight  of  steps 
in  full  view  of  the  mob. 


92  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

There  was  no  bringing  him  back,  so  of  course  I  followed. 
A  pillar  sheltered  me — I  do  not  think  he  saw  me,  though  I 
stood  close  behind  him. 

So  sudden  had  been  his  act,  that  even  the  rioters  did  not 
seem  to  have  noticed,  or  clearly  understood  it,  till  the  next 
lighted  torch  showed  them  the  young  man  standing  there 
with  his  back  to  the  door — outside  the  door. 

The  sight  fairly  confounded  them.  Even  I  felt  that  for 
the  moment  he  was  safe.  They  were  awed — nay,  paralyzed, 
by  his  daring. 

But  the  storm  raged  too  fiercely  to  be  lulled,  except  for 
one  brief  minute.  A  confusion  of  voices  burst  out  afresh: 

"Who  be  thee?"  "It's  one  o'  the  Quakers."  "No,  he  bean't." 
"Burn  'un  anyhow."  "Touch  'un,  if  ye  dare." 

There  was  evidently  a  division  arising.  One  big  man,  who 
had  made  himself  very  prominent  all  along,  seemed  trying 
to  calm  the  tumult. 

John  stood  his  ground.  Once  a  torch  was  flung  at  him; 
he  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
hurl  it  back  again,  but  he  did  not;  he  only  threw  it  down 
and  stamped  it  out  safely  with  his  foot.  This  simple  action 
had  a  wonderful  effect  on  the  crowd. 

The  big  fellow  advanced  to  the  gate,  and  called  John  by 
his  name. 

"Is  that  you,  Jacob  Baines?    I  am  sorry  to  see  you  here." 

"Be  ye,  sir?" 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Naught  wi'  thee.  We  wants  Abel  Fletcher.  Where  is 
'un?" 

"I  shall  certainly  not  tell  you." 

As  John  said  this,  again  the  noise  arose,  and  again  Jacob 
Baines  seemed  to  have  power  to  quiet  the  rest. 

John  Halifax  never  stirred.  Evidently  he  was  pretty  well 
known.  I  caught  many  a  stray  sentence,  such  as,  "Don't  hurt 
the  lad."  "He  were  kind  to  my  lad,  he  were."  "No,  he  be 
a  real  gentleman."  "No,  he  corned  here  as  poor  as  us,"  and 
the  like.  At  length,  one  voice,  sharp  and  shrill,  was  heard 
above  the  rest. 

"I  zay,  young  man,  didst  ever  know  what  it  was  to  be 
pretty  nigh  varnished?" 

"Ay,  many  a  time." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  dS 

The  answer,  so  brief,  so  unexpected,  struck  a  great  hush 
into  the  throng.  Then  the  same  voice  cried: 

"Speak  up,  man!  we  won't  hurt  'ee!    You  be  one  'o  we." 

"No,  I  am  not  one  of  you.  I'd  be  ashamed  to  come  in  the 
night  and  burn  my  master's  house  down." 

I  expected  an  outbreak,  but  none  came.  They  listened, 
as  it  were,  by  compulsion,  to  the  clear,  manly  voice  that  had 
not  in  it  one  shade  of  fear. 

"What  do  you  do  it  for?"  John  continued.  "All  because 
he  would  not  sell  you,  or  give  you  his  wheat.  Even  so — it 
was  his  wheat,  not  yours.  May  not  a  man  do  what  he  likes 
with  his  own?" 

The  argument  seemed  to  strike  home.  There  is  always 
a  lurking  sense  of  rude  justice  in  a  mob — at  least  a  British 
mob. 

"Don't  you  see  how  foolish  you  were?  You  tried  threats, 
too.  Now  you  all  know  Mr.  Fletcher;  you  are  his  men — 
some  of  you.  He  is  not  a  man  to  be  threatened." 

This  seemed  to  be  taken  rather  angrily;  but  John  went 
on  speaking,  as  if  he  did  not  observe  the  fact. 

"Nor  am  I  one  to  be  threatened,  neither.  Look  here — the 
first  one  of  you  who  attempted  to  break  into  Mr.  Fletcher's 
house,  I  should  most  certainly  have  shot.  But  I'd  rather 
not  shoot  you,  poor,  starving  fellows!  I  know  what  it  is  to 
be  hungry.  I'm  sorry  for  you — sorry  from  the  bottom  of 
my  heart." 

There  was  no  mistaking  that  compassionate  accent,  nor 
the  murmur  which  followed  it. 

"But  what  must  us  do,  Mr.  Halifax?"  cried  Jacob  Baines: 
"us  be  starved,  a'most.  What's  the  good  o'  talking  to  we?" 

John's  countenance  relaxed.  I  saw  him  lift  his  head  and 
shake  his  hair  back,  with  that  pleased  gesture  I  remembered 
so  well  of  old.  He  went  down  to  the  locked  gate. 

"Suppose  I  gave  you  something  to  eat,  would  you  listen 
to.  me  afterward?" 

There  rose  up  a  frenzied  shout  of  assent.  Poor  wretches! 
they  were  fighting  for  no  principle,  true  or  false,  only  for 
bare  life.  They  would  have  bartered  their  very  souls  for 
a  mouthful  of  bread. 

"You  must  promise  to  be  peaceable,"  said  John,  again, 
very  resolutely,  as  soon  as  he  could  obtain  a  hearing.  "You 
are  Norton  Bury  folk,  I  know  you,  I  could  get  every  one  oi 


94  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

you  hanged,  even  though  Abel  Fletcher  is  a  Quaker.  Mind, 
you'll  be  peaceable?" 

"Ay — ay!    Some'at  to  eat;  give  us  some'at  to  eat." 

John  Halifax  called  out  to  Jael;  bade  her  bring  all  the 
food  of  every  kind  that  there  was  in  the  house,  and  give  it 
to  him  out  of  the  parlor  window.  She  obeyed — 1  marvel  now 
to  think  of .  it — but  she  implicitly  obeyed.  Only  I 
heard  her  fix  the  bar  to  the  closed  front-door,  and  go  back 
with  a  strange,  sharp  sob,  to  her  station  at  the  hall  window. 

"Now,  my  lads,  come  in!"  and  he  unlocked  the  gate. 

They  came  thronging  up  the  steps,  not  more  than  two 
score,  I  imagined  in  spite  of  the  noise  they  had  made.  But 
two  score  of  such  famished,  desperate  men,  God  grant  I  may 
never  again  see! 

John  divided  the  food  as  well  as  he  could  among  them; 
they  fell  to  it  like  wild  beasts.  Meat,  cooked,  or  raw,  loaves, 
vegetables,  meal;  all  came  alike,  and  were  clutched,  gnawed, 
and  scrambled  for,  in  the  fierce  selfishness  of  hunger.  After- 
ward there  was  a  call  for  drink. 

"Water,  Jael;  bring  them  water." 

"Beer!"  shouted  some. 

"Water,"  repeated  John.  "Nothing  but  water.  I'll  have 
no  drunkards  rioting  at  my  master's  door." 

And,  either  by  chance  or  design,  he  let  them  hear  the  click 
of  his  pistol.  But  it  was  hardly  needed.  They  were  all 
cowed  by  a  mightier  weapon  still — the  best  weapon  a  man 
can  use — his  own  firm,  indomitable  will. 

At  length  all  the  food  we  had  in  the  house  was  con- 
sumed. John  told  them  so;  and  they  believed  him.  Little 
enough,  indeed,  was  sufficient  for  some  of  them;  wasted  with 
long  famine,  they  turned  sick  and  faint,  and  dropped  down 
e'en  with  bread  in  their  mouths,  unable  to  swallow  it.  Others 
gorged  themselves  to  the  full,  and  then  lay  along  the  steps, 
supine  as  satisfied  brutes.  Only  a  few  sat  and  ate  like  ra- 
tional human  beings;  and  there  was  but  one,  the  little,  shrill- 
voiced  man,  who  asked  me  if  he  might  "tak'  a  bit  o'  bread  to 
the  old  wench  at  home?" 

John,  hearing,  turned,  and  for  the  first  time  noticed  me. 

"Phineas,  it  was  very  wrong  of  you;  but  there  is  no  danger 
now." 

No,  there  was  none — not  even  for  Abel  Fletcher's  son.  I 
stood  safe  by  John's  side,  very  happy,  very  proud. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  95 

"Well,  my  men,"  he  said,  looking  round  with  a  smile,  "have 
you  had  enough  to  eat?" 

"Oh,  ay!"  they  all  cried. 

And  one  man  added — "Thank  the  Lord!" 

"That's  right,  Jacob  Baines;  and,  another  time,  trust  the 
Lord.  You  wouldn't  then  have  been  abroad  this  summer 
morning" — and  he  pointed  to  the  dawn  just  reddening  in 
the  sky — "this  quiet,  blessed  summer  morning,  burning  and 
rioting,  bringing  yourselves  to  the  gallows,  and  your  children 
to  starvation." 

"They  be  nigh  that  a-ready,"  said  Jacob,  sullenly.  "Us 
men  ha'  gotten  a  meal,  thankee  for  it;  but  what'll  become  o' 
the  little  'uns  at  home?  I  say,  Mr.  Halifax,"  and  he  seemed 
waxing  desperate  again,  "we  must  get  some  food  somehow." 

John  turned  away,  his  countenance  very  sad.  Another 
of  the  men  plucked  at  him  from  behind. 

"Sir,  when  thee  was  a  poor  lad,  I  lent  thee  a  rug  to  sleep 
on;  I  doan't  grudge'ee  getting  on;  you  was  born  for  a  gen- 
tleman, sure-ly.  But  Master  Fletcher  be  a  hard  man." 

"And  a  just  one,"  persisted  John.  "You  that  work  for 
him,  did  he  ever  stint  you  of  a  half -penny?  If  you  had  come 
to  him  and  said,  'Master,  times  are  hard,  we  can't  live  upon 
our  wages/  he  might — I  don't  say  that  he  would — but  he 
might  even  have  given  you  the  food  you  tried  to  steal." 

"D'ye  think  he'd  give  it  to  us  now?"  And  Jacob  Baines, 
the  big,  gaunt,  savage  fellow,  who  had  been  the  ringleader — 
the  same,  too,  who  had  spoken  of  his  "little  'uns" — came 
and  looked  steadily  in  John's  face. 

"I  knew  thee  as  a  lad;  thee'rt  a  young  man  now,  as  will 
be  a  father  some  o'  these  days.  Oh!  Mr.  Halifax,  may'ee 
ne'er  want  a  meal  o'  good  meat  for  the  missus  and  the  babbies 
at  home,  if  ee'll  get  a  bit  o'  bread  for  our'n  this  day." 

"My  man,  I'll  try." 

He  called  me  aside,  explained  to  me,  and  asked  my  ad- 
vice and  consent,  as  Abel  Fletcher's  son,  to  a  plan  that  had 
come  into  his  mind.  It  was  to  write  orders,  which  each  man 
presenting  at  our  mill,  should  receive  a  certain  amount  of 
flour. 

"Do  you  think  your  father  would  agree?" 

"I  think  he  would." 

"Yes,"  John  added,  pondering — "I  am  sure  he  would. 
And  besides,  if  he  does  not  give  some  he  may  lose  all.  But 


96  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

he  would  not  do  it  for  fear  of  that.  No,  he  is  a  just  man — 
I  am  not  afraid.  Give  me  some  paper,  Jael.*' 

He  sat  down  as  composedly  as  if  he  had  been  alone  in  the 
counting-house,  and  wrote.  I  looked  over  his  shoulder,  ad- 
miring his  clear,  firm  handwriting;  the  precision,  concentra- 
tiveness,and  quickness,  with  which  he  first  seemed  to  arrange, 
and  then  execute  his  ideas.  He  possessed  to  the  full  that 
"business"  faculty  so  frequently  despised,  but  which,  out  of 
very  ordinary  material,  often  makes  a  clever  man;  and  with- 
out which  the  cleverest  man  alive  can  never  be  altogether  a 
great  man. 

When  about  to  sign  the  orders,  John  suddenly  stopped. 
"No;  I  had  better  not." 

"Why  so?" 

"I  have  no  right;  your  father  might  think  it  presumption." 

"Presumption?  after  to-night!" 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!  Take  the  pen.  It  is  your  part  to 
sign  them,  Phineas." 

I  obeyed. 

'Isn't  this  better  than  hanging?"  said  John  to  the  men, 
when  he  had  distributed  the  little  bits  of  paper — precious 
as  pound-notes — and  made  them  all  fully  understand  the 
same.  "Why,  there  isn't  another  gentleman  in  Norton  Bury 
who,  if  you  had  come  to  burn  his  house  down,  would  not 
have  had  the  constables  or  the  soldiers,  have  shot  down  one- 
half  of  you  like  mad  dogs,  and  sent  the  other  half  to  the 
county  jail.  Now,  for  all  your  misdoings,  we  let  you  go 
quietly  home,  well  fed,  and  with  food  for  children,  too.  Why, 
think  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jacob  Baines,  humbly. 

"I'll  tell  you.  Because  Abel  Fletcher  is  a  Quaker,  and 
a  Christian." 

"Hurrah  for  Abel  Fletcher!  hurrah  for  the  Quakers!" 
shouted  they,  waking  up  the  echoes  down  Norton  Bury 
streets;  which,  of  a  surety,  had  never  echoed  to  that  shout 
before.  And  so  the  riot  was  over. 

John  Halifax  closed  the  hall-door  and  came  in — unstead- 
ily— staggering.  Jael  placed  a  chair  for  him — worthy  soul! 
she  was  wiping  her  old  eyes.  He  sat  down,  shivering,  speech- 
less. I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder;  he  took  it,  and  pressed 
it  hard. 

"Oh!  Phineas,  lad,  I'm  glad  it's  safe  over." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  97 

"Yes,  thank  God!" 

"Ay,  indeed;  thank  God!" 

He  covered  his  eyes  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  rose  up  pale, 
but  quite  himself  again. 

"Now  let  us  go  and  fetch  your  father  home." 

We  found  him  on  John's  bed,  still  asleep.  But  as  we  en- 
tered he  woke.  The  daylight  shone  on  his  face — it  looked  ten 
years  older  since  yesterday — he  stared,  bewildered  and  angry, 
at  John  Halifax. 

"Eh,  young  man — oh!  I  remember.  Where  is  my  son — 
where's  my  Phineas? 

I  fell  on  his  neck  as  if  I  had  been  a  child.  And  almost 
as  if  it  had  been  a  child's  feeble  head,  mechanically  he 
smoothed  and  patted  mine. 

"Thee  art  not  hurt?    Nor  any  one?" 

"No,"  John  answered;  "nor  is  either  the  house  or  the 
tan-yard  injured." 

He  looked  amazed.    "How  has  that  been?" 

"Phineas  will  tell  you.  Or,  stay — better  wait  till  you  are 
at  home." 

But  my  father  insisted  on  hearing.  I  told  the  whole,  with- 
out any  comments  on  John's  behavior;  he  would  not  have 
liked  it;  and,  besides,  the  facts  spoke  for  themselves.  I  told 
the  simple,  plain  story — nothing  more. 

Abel  Fletcher  listened  at  first  in  silence.  As  I  proceeded, 
he  felt  about  for  his  hat,  put  it  on,  and  drew  its  broad  brim 
close  down  over  his  eyes.  Not  even  when  I  told  him  of  the 
flour  we  had  promised  in  his  name,  the  giving  of  which 
would,  as  we  had  calculated,  cost  him  considerable  loss,  did  he 
utter  a  word  or  move  a  muscle. 

John,  at  length,  asked  him  if  he  were  satisfied. 

"Quite  satisfied." 

But  having  said  this,  he  sat  so  long,  his  hands  locked  to- 
gether on  his  knees,  and  his  hat  drawn  down,  hiding  all  the 
face  except  the  rigid  mouth  and  chin — sat  so  long,  so  mo- 
tionless, that  we  became  uneasy. 

John  spoke  to  him,  gently  almost  as  a  son  would  have 
spoken. 

"Are  you  very  lame  still?    Could  I  help  you  to  walk  home?" 

My  father  looked  up  and  slowly  held  out  his  hand. 

"Thee  hast  been  a  good  lad  and  a  kind  lad  to  us;  I 
thank  thee." 

7 


98  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

There  was  no  answer — none.  But  all  the  words  in  the 
world  could  not  match  that  happy  silence. 

By  degrees  we  got  my  father  home.  It  was  just  such  an- 
other summer  morning  as  the  one,  two  years  back,  when  we 
too  had  stood,  exhausted  and  trembling,  before  that  sternly- 
bolted  door.  We  both  thought  of  that  day;  I  knew  not  if 
my  father  did  also. 

He  entered,  leaning  heavily  on  John.  He  sat  down  in 
the  very  seat,  in  the  very  room,  where  he  had  so  harshly 
judged  us — judged  him. 

Something,  perhaps,  of  that  bitterness  rankled  in  the  young 
man's  spirit  now,  for  he  stopped  on  the  threshold. 

"Come  in,"  said  my  father,  looking  up. 

"If  I  am  welcome;  not  otherwise." 

"Thee  art  welcome." 

He  came  in — I  drew  him  in — and  sat  down  with  us.  But 
his  manner  was  irresolute,  his  fingers  closed  and  unclosed 
nervously.  My  father,  too,  sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  two 
hands,  not  unmoved.  I  stole  up  to  him  and  thanked  him 
softly  for  the  welcome  he  had  given. 

"There  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for,"  said  he,  with  some- 
thing of  his  old  hardness.  "What  I  once  did  was  only  justice 
— or  I  then  believed  so.  What  I  have  done,  and  am  about 
to  do,  is  still  mere  justice.  John,  how  old  art  thee  now  ?" 

"Twenty." 

"Then  for  one  year  from  this  time  I  will  take  thee  as  my 
'prentice,  though  thee  knowest  already  nearly  as  much  of 
the  business  as  I  do.  At  twenty-one  thee  will  be  able  to 
set  up  for  thyself,  or  I  may  take  thee  into  partnership — we'll 
see.  But" — and  he  looked  at  me,  then  sternly,  nay,  fiercely, 
into  John's  steadfast  eyes — "remember,  thee  hast  in  some 
measure  taken  that  lad's  place.  May  God  deal  with  thee 
as  thou  dealest  with  my  son  Phineas — my  only  son!" 

"Amen!"  was  the  solemn  answer. 

And  God  who  sees  us  both  now — ay,  now!  and,  perhaps, 
not  so  far  apart  as  some  may  deem — He  knows  whether  or 
no  John  Halifax  kept  that  vow. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  99 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Well  done,  Phineas,  to  walk  round  the  garden  without 
once  resting!  Now  I  call  that  grand,  after  an  individual  has 
been  ill  a  month.  However,  you  must  cairn  your  superabund- 
ant energies  and  be  quiet." 

I  was  not  unwilling,  for  I  still  felt  very  weak.  But  sick- 
ness did  not  now  take  that  heavy,  overpowering  grip  of  me, 
mind  and  body,  that  it  once  used  to  do.  It  never  did  when 
John  was  by.  He  gave  me  strength,  mentally  tnd  physically. 
He  was  life  and  health  to  me,  with  his  brave  cheerfulness, 
his  way  of  turning  all  minor  troubles  into  pleasantries,  till 
they  seemed  to  break  and  vanish  away,  sparkling,  like  the 
foam  on  the  top  of  a  wave.  Yet,  all  the  while,  one  knew 
well  that  he  could  meet  any  great  evil  as  gallantly  as  a  good 
ship  meets  a  heavy  sea — breasting  it,  plunging  through  it, 
or  riding  over  it,  as  only  a  good  ship  can. 

When  I  recovered — just  a  month  after  the  bread-riot,  and 
that  month  was  a  great  triumph  to  John's  kind  care — I  felt 
that  if  I  always  had  him  beside  me  I  should  never  be  ill  any 
more;  I  said  as  much  in  a  laughing  sort  of  way. 

"Very  well;  I  shall  keep  you  to  that  bargain.  Now,  sit 
down;  listen  to  the  newspaper,  and  improve  your  mind  as 
to  what  the  world  is  doing.  It  ought  to  be  doing  something, 
with  the  new  century  it  began  this  year.  Did  it  not  seem 
very  odd  at  first  to  have  to  write  '1800?' " 

"John,  what  a  capital  hand  you  write  now!" 

"Do  I?  That's  somebody's  credit.  Do  you  remember  my 
first  lesson  on  the  top  of  the  Mythe?" 

"I  wonder  what  has  become  of  those  two  gentlemen?" 

"Oh!  did  you  never  hear?  Young  Mr.  Brithwood  is  the 
'squire  now.  He  married,  last  month,  Lady  Somebody  Some- 
thing, a  fine  lady  from  abroad." 

"And  Mr.  March— what  of  him?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea.  Come  now,  shall  I  read  the 
paper?" 

He  read  well,  and  I  liked  to  listen  to  him.  It  was,  I  re- 
member, something  about  "the  spacious  new  quadrangles 


100  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

to  be  called  Russell  and  Tavistock  Squares,  with  elegantly 
laid-out  nursery-grounds  adjoining." 

"It  must  be  a  fine  place,  London." 

"Ay;  I  should  like  to  see  it.  Your  father  says,  perhaps 
he  shall  have  to  send  me,  this  winter,  on  business — won't 
that  be  fine?  If  only  you  would  go  too." 

I  shook  my  head.  I  had  the  strongest  disinclination  to 
stir  from  my  quiet  home,  which  now  held  within  it,  or  about 
it,  all  I  wished  for  and  all  I  loved.  It  seemed  as  if  any 
change  must  be  to  something  worse. 

"Nevertheless,  you  must  have  a  change.  Dr.  Jessop  insists 
upon  it.  Here  have  I  been  beating  up  and  down  the  country 
for  a  week  past — 'Adventures  in  Search  of  a  Country  Resi- 
dence'— and,  do  you  know,  I  think  I've  found  one  at  last. 
Shouldn't  you  like^to  hear  about  it?" 

I  assented  to  please  him. 

"Such  a  nice,  nice  place,  on  the  slope  of  Enderley  Hill.  A 
cottage — Rose  Cottage — for  it's  all  in  a  bush  of  cluster-roses, 
up  to  the  very  roof." 

"Where  is  Enderley?" 

"Did  you  never  hear  of  Enderley  Flat,  the  highest  table- 
land in  England?  Such  a  fresh,  free,  breezy  spot — how 
the  wind  sweeps  over  it!  I  can  feel  it  in  my  face  still!" 

And  even  the  description  was  refreshing,  this  heavy,  sultry 
day,  with  not  a  breath  of  air  moving  across  the  level  valley  in 
which  Norton  Bury  lay. 

"Shouldn't  you  like  to  live  on  a  hill-side,  to  be  at  the  top 
of  everything,  overlooking  everything?  Well,  that's  Ender- 
ley; the  village  lies  just  under  the  brow  of  the  Flat." 

"Is  there  a  village?" 

"A  dozen  cottages  or  so,  at  each  door  of  which  half  a  dozen 
white  little  heads,  and  a  dozen  round  eyes  appeared  staring 
at  me.  But  oh,  the  blessed  quiet  and  solitude  of  the  place! 
No  fights  in  filthy  alleys!  no  tan-yards — I  mean,"  he  added, 
correcting  himself,  "that  it's  a  thorough  country  spot;  and  I 
like  the  country  better  than  the  town." 

"Do  you,  still?  Would  you  really  like  to  take  to  the  'shep- 
herd's life  and  state,'  upon  which  my  namesake  here  is  so 
eloquent!  Let  us  see  what  he  says." 

And  from  the  handful  of  books  that  usually  lay  strewn 
about  wherever  we  two  sat,  I  took  up  one  he  had  lately  got, 
with  no  small  pains,  I  was  sure,  and  had  had  bound  in  its 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  101 

own  proper  color,  and  presented  it  to  me — 'The  Purple 
Island;'  and  'Sicelides,'  of  Phineas  Fletcher.  People  seldom 
read  this  wise,  tender,  and  sweet-voiced  old  fellow  now;  so 
I  will  even  copy  the  verses  I  found  for  John  to  read. 

"Here  is  the  place.  Thyrsis  is  just  ending  his  'broken 
lay/ 

"  'Lest  that  the  stealing  night  his  later  song  might  stay—'  " 

"Stop  a  minute,"  interrupted  John.  "Apropos  of  'stealing 
night,'  the  sun  is  already  down  below  the  yew-hedge.  Are 
you  cold?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"Then  we'll  begin: 

"  'Thrice,  oh,  thrice  happy,  shepherd's  life  and  state: 
When  courts  are  happiness,  unhappy  pawns!' 

"That's  not  clear,"  said  John,  laying  down  the  book.  ''Now 
I  do  like  poetry  to  be  intelligible.  A  poet  ought  to  see  things 
more  widelv,  and  express  them  more  vividly,  than  ordinary 
folk." 

"Don't  you  perceive — he  means  the  pawns  on  the  chess- 
board— the  common  people." 

"Phineas,  don't  say  the  common  people.  I'm  a  common 
person  myself.  But  to  continue: 

"  'His  cottage  low,  and  safely  humble  gate, 

Shuts  out  proud  Fortune  with  her  scorns  and  fawns: 
No  feared  treason  breaks  his  quiet  sleep. 
Singing  all  day,  his  flocks  he  learns  to  keep, 
Himself  as  innocent  as  are  his  quiet  sheep.' 

("Not  many  sheep  at  Enderley,  I  fancy;  the  Flat  chiefly 
abounds  in  donkeys.  Well — ) 

"  'No  Serian  worms  he  knows,  that  with  their  thread, 
Drew  out  their  silken  lives — nor  silken  pride — ' 

"WTrich  reminds  me  that " 


"David,  how  can  you  make  me  laugh  at  my  reverend  an- 
cestor in  this  way?  I'm  ashamed  of  you." 

"Only  let  me  tell  you  this  one  fact — very  interesting,  you'll 
allow — that  I  saw  a  silken  gown  hanging  up  in  the  kitchen 


102  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

at  Rose  Cottage.  _  Now,  though  Mrs.  Tod  is  a  decent,  comely 
woman,  I  don't  think  it  belonged  to  her." 

"She  may  have  lodgers/' 

"I  think  she  said  she  had — an  old  gentleman — but  he 
wouldn't  wear  a  silk  gown." 

"His  wife  might.    Now  do  go  on  reading/' 

"Certainly;  I  only  wish  to  draw  a  parallel  between  Thyrsis 
and  ourselves,  in  our  future  summer  life  at  Enderley.  So 
the  old  gentleman's  wife  may  appropriate  the  'silken  pride,' 
while  we  emulate  the  shepherd. 

"  'His  lambs'  warm  fleece  well  fits  his  little  need — ' 

"I  wear  a  tolerably  good  coat  now,  don't  I,  Phineas?" 

"You  are  incorrigible." 

Yet,  through  all  his  fun,  I  detected  a  certain  undertone 
of  seriousness,  observable  in  him  ever  since  my  father's  decla- 
ration of  his  intentions  concerning  him  had,  so  to  speak, 
settled  John's  future  career.  He  seemed  aware  of  some  crisis 
in  his  life,  arrived  or  impending,  which  disturbed  the  gen- 
erally even  balance  of  his  temperament. 

"Nay,  I'll  be  serious;"  and  passing  over  the  unfinished 
verse,  with  another  or  two  following,  he  began  afresh  in  a  new 
place,  and  in  an  altogether  changed  tone. 

"  'His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 

Is  full  of  thousand  sweets  and  rich  content; 

The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 

With  coolest  shades  till  noon-tide's  rage  is  spent; 
His  life  is  neither  tost  on  boisterous  seas 
Of  troublous  worlds,  nor  lost  in  slothful  ease. 

Pleased  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can  please. 

"  'His  bed  of  wool  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleep, 
While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath  place; 

His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  image  of  his  father's  face; 

Never  his  humble  house  or  state  torment  him; 

Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent  him; 
And  when  he  dies,  green  turfs  with  grassy  tomb  content  him.'  " 

John  ceased.  He  was  a  good  reader;  but  I  had  never  heard 
him  read  like  this  before.  Ending,  one  missed  it  like  the 
breaking  off  of  music,  or  like  the  inner  voice  of  one's  own 
heart  talking  when  nobody  is  by. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  103 

"David,"  I  said,  after  a  pause,  "what  are  you  thinking  - 
about?" 

He  started,  with  his  old,  quick  blush — "Oh,  nothing — no, 
that's  not  quite  true.  I  was  thinking  that,  so  far  as  happiness 
goes,  this  'shepherd's'  is  my  ideal  of  happy  life — ay,  down 
to  the  'grassy  tomb.' " 

"Your  fancy  leaps  at  once  to  the  grassy  tomb;  but  the 
shepherd  enjoyed  a  few  intermediate  stages  of  felicity  before 
that." 

"I  was  thinking  of  those  likewise." 

"Then  you  do  intend  some  day  to  have  a  "faithful  spouse 
and  a  little  son?" 

"I  hope  so — God  willing." 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  this  was  the  first  time  our  con- 
versation had  ever  wandered  in  a  similar  direction.  Though 
he  was  twenty,  and  I  twenty-two,  to  us  both — and  I  thank 
Heaven  that  we  both  could  look  up  in  the  face  of  Heaven 
and  say  so! — to  us  both,  the  follies  and  wickednesses  of  youth 
were,  if  not  equally  unknown,  equally  alike  hateful.  Many 
may  doubt,  or  smile  at  the  fact;  but  I  state  it  now,  in  my 
old  age,  with  honor  and  pride,  that  we  two  young  men  that 
day  trembled  on  the  subject  of  love  as  shyly,  as  reverently, 
as  delicately,  as  any  two  young  maidens  of  innocent  sixteen. 

After  John's  serious  "God  willing,"  there  was  a  good  long 
silence.  Afterward,  I  said: 

"Then  you  propose  to  marry?" 

"Certainly!  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Have  you  ever" — and,  while  speaking,  I  watched  him 
narrowly,  for  a  sudden  possibility  flashed  across  my  mind — 
"Have  you  ever  seen  any  one  whom  you  would  like  for  your 
wife?" 

"No." 

I  was  satisfied.  John's  single  "No"  was  as  conclusive  as 
a  score  of  asseverations. 

We  said  no  more;  but  after  one  of  those  pauses  of  conver- 
sation which  were  habitual  to  us — John  used  to  say,  that  the 
true  test  of  friendship  was  to  be  able  to  sit  or  walk  together 
for  a  whole  hour,  in  perfect  silence,  without  wearying  of  one 
another's  company — we  again  began  talking  about  Enderley. 

I  soon  found  that  in  this  plan  my  part  was  simply  acqui- 
escence; my  father  and  John  had  already  arranged  it  all.  I 
was  to  be  in  charge  of  the  latter;  nothing  could  induce  Abel 


104  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Fletcher  to  leave,  even  for  a  day,  his  house,  liis  garden,  and 
his  tan-yard.  We  two  young  men  were  to  set  up  for  a  month 
or  two  our  bachelor  establishment  at  Mrs.  Tod's;  John  riding 
thrice  a  week  over  to  Norton  Bury  to  bring  news  of  me,  and 
to  fulfill  his  duties  at  the  tan-yard.  One  could  see  plain 
enough — and  very  grateful  to  me  was  the  sight — that 
whether  or  no  Abel  Fletcher  acknowledged  it,  his  right  hand 
in  all  his  business  affairs  was  the  lad  John  Halifax. 

On  a  lovely  August  day,  we  started  for  Enderley.  It  was 
about  eight  miles  off,  on  a  hilly,  cross-country  road.  We 
lumbered  slowly  along  in  our  post-chaise;  I  leaning  back,  en- 
j  eying  the  fresh  air,  the  changing  views,  and  chiefly  to  see 
how  intensely  John  enjoyed  them  too. 

He  looked  extremely  well  to-day — handsome,  I  was  about 
to  write;  but  John  was  never,  even  in  his  youth,  ''handsome." 
Nay,  I  have  heard  people  call  him  "plain;"  but  that  was  not 
true.  His  face  had  that  charm,  perhaps  the  greatest,  cer- 
tainly the  most  lasting,  either  in  women  or  men,  of  infinite 
variety.  You  were  always  finding  out  something — an  expres- 
sion strange  as  tender,  or  the  track  of  a  swift  brilliant 
thought,  or  an  indication  of  feeling  different  from,  perhaps 
deeper  than,  anything  which  appeared  before.  When  you  be- 
lieved you  had  learned  it  line  by  line,  it  would  startle  you 
by  a  phase  quite  new,  and  beautiful  as  new.  For  it  was  not 
one  of  your  impassive  faces,  whose  owners  count  it  pride  to 
harden  into  a  mass  of  stone  those  lineaments  which  nature 
made  as  the  flesh-and-blood  representation  of  the  man's  soul. 
True,  it  had  its  reticences,  its  sacred  disguises,  its  noble  pow- 
ers of  silence  and  self-control.  It  was  a  fair-written,  open 
book;  only,  to  read  it  clearly,  you  must  come  from  its  own 
country,  and  understand  the  same  language. 

For  the  rest,  John  was  decidedly  like  the  "David"  whose 
name  I  still  gave  him  now  and  then — "a  goodly  person;" 
tall,  well-built,  and  strong.  "The  glory  of  a  young  man  is 
his  strength;"  and  so  I  used  often  to  think,  when  I  looked  at 
him.  He  always  dressed  with  extreme  simplicity;  generally 
in  gray,  he  was  fond  of  gray;  and  in  something  of  our  Quaker 
fashion.  On  this  day,  I  remember,  I  noticed  an  especial  care- 
fulness of  attire,  at  his  age  neither  unnatural  nor  unbecom- 
ing. His  well-fitting  coat  and  long-flapped  vest,  garnished 
with  the  snowiest  of  lawn  frills  and  ruffles;  his  knee-breeches, 
black  silk  hose,  and  shoes  adorned  with  the  largest  and 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  106 

brightest  of  steel  buckles,  made  up  a  costume,  which,  quaint 
as  it  would  now  appear,  still  is,  to  my  mind,  the  most  suitable 
and  graceful  that  a  young  man  can  wear.  I  never  see  any 
young  men  now  who  come  at  all  near  the  picture  which 
still  remains  in  my  mind's  eye  of  John  Halifax  as  he  looked 
that  day. 

Once,  with  the  natural  sensitiveness  of  youth,  especially 
of  youth  that  has  struggled  up  through  so  many  opposing 
circumstances  as  his  had  done,  he  noticed  my  glance. 

"Anything  amiss  about  me,  Phineas?  You  see  I  am  not 
much  used  to  holidays  and  holiday  clothes." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  against  either  you  or  your  clothes," 
replied  I,  smiling. 

"That's  all  right;  I  beg  to  state,  it  is  entirely  in  honor 
of  you  and  of  Enderley  that  I  have  slipped  off  my  tan-yard 
husk,  and  put  on  the  gentleman." 

"You  couldn't  do  that,  John.  You  couldn't  put  on  what 
you  were  born  with." 

He  laughed;  but  I  think  he  was  pleased. 

\Ve  had  now  come  into  a  hilty  region.  John  leaped  out 
and  gained  the  top  of  the  steep  road  long  before  the_  post- 
chaise  did.  I  watched  him  standing,  balancing  in  his  hands 
the  riding-whip  which  had  replaced  the  everlasting  rose- 
switch,  or  willow-wand,  of  his  boyhood.  His  figure  was  out- 
lined sharply  against  the  sky,  his  head  thrown  backward  a 
little,  as  he  gazed,  evidently  with  the  keenest  zest,  on  the 
breezy  flat  before  him.  His  hair — a  little  darker  than  it 
used  to  be,  but  of  the  true  Saxon  color  still,  and  curly  as 
ever — was  blown  about  by  the  wind,  under  his  broad  hat. 
His  whole  appearance  was  full  of  life,  health,  energy,  and 
enjoyment. 

I  thought  any  father  might  have  been  proud  of  such  a  son, 
any  sister  of  such  a  brother,  any  young  girl  of  such  a  lover. 
Ay,  that  last  tie,  the  only  one  of  the  three  that  was  possible 
to  him — I  wondered  how  long  it  would  be  before  times 
changed,  and  I  ceased  to  be  the  only  one  who  was  proud  of 
him. 

We  drove  on  a  little  further,  and  came  to  the  chief  land- 
mark of  the  high  moorland — a  quaint  hostelry,  called  the 
"Bear."  Bruin  swung  aloft,  pole  in  hand,  brown  and  fierce, 
on  an  old-fashioned  sign,  as  he  and  his  progenitors  had  prob- 
ably swung  for  two  centuries  or  more, 


106  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Is  this  Enderley?"    I  asked. 

"Xot  quite,  but  near  it.  You  never  saw  the  sea?  "Well, 
from  this  point  I  can  show  you  something  very  like  it.  Do 
you  see  that  gleaming  bit  in  the  landscape  far  away?  That's 
water — that's  our  very  own  Severn,  swelled  to  an  estuary. 
But  you  must  imagine  the  estuary — you  can  only  get  that 
tiny  peep  of  water,  glittering  like  a  great  diamond  that  some 
voung  Titaness  has  flung  out  of  her  necklace  down  among 
the  hills." 

"David,  you  are  actually  growing  poetical." 

"Am  I?  Well,  I  do  feel  rather  strange  to-day — crazy  like; 
a  high  wind  always  sends  me  half-crazy  with  delight.  Did 
you  ever  feel  such  a  breeze?  And  there's  something  so  glo- 
riously free  in  this  high  level  common — as  flat  as  if  my 
Titaness  had  found  a  little  Mont  Blanc,  and  amused  herself 
with  patting  it  down  like  a  dough-cake." 

"A  very  culinary  goddess." 

"Yes!  but  a  goddess  after  all.  And  her  dough-cake,  her 
mushroom,  her  flattened  Mont  Blanc,  is  very  fine.  What  a 
broad  green  sweep- — nothing  but  sky  and  common,  common 
and  sky.  This  is  Enderley  Flat.  We  shall  come  to  its  edge 
scon,  where  it  drops  abruptly  into  such  a  pretty  valley. 
There,  look  down;  that's  the  church.  We  are  on  a  level  with 
the  top  of  its  tower.  Take  care,  my  lad," — to  the  post-boy, 
who  was  crossing  with  difficulty  the  literally  "pathless  waste," 
— "don't  lurch  us  into  the  quarry-pits,  or  topple  us  at  once 
down  the  slope,  where  we  shall  roll  over  and  over — -facilis 
descensus  Averni — and  lodge  in  Mrs.  Tod's  garden  hedge." 

"Mrs.  Tod  would  feel  flattered  if  she  knew  Latin.  You 
don't  look  upon  our  future  habitation  as  a  sort  of  Avernus?" 

John  laughed  "merrily.  "No,  as  I  told  you  before,  I  like 
Enderley  Hill.  I  can't  tell  why,  but  I  like  it.  It  seems  as  if 
I  had  known  the  place  before.  I  feel  as  if  we  were  going 
to  have  great  happiness  here." 

And  as  he  spoke,  his  unwonted  buoyancy  softened  into  a 
quietness  of  manner,  more  befitting  that  word  "happiness." 
Strange  word!  hardly  in  my  vocabulary.  Yet,  when  he 
uttered  it,  I  seemed  to  understand  it  and  to  be  content. 

We  wound  a  little  way  down  the  slope,  and  came  in  front 
of  Rose  Cottage.  It  was  well  named.  I  never  in  my  life  had 
seen  such  a  bush  of  bloom.  They  hung  in  clusters — those 
roses — a  dozen  in  a  group;  pressing  their  pinky  cheeks  to- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  107 

gether  in  a  mass  of  family  fragrance,  pushing  in  at  the*parlor 
window,  climbing  up  even  to  the  very  attic.  There  was  a 
yellow  jasmine  over  the  porch  at  one  front  door,  and  a  wood- 
bine at  the  other;  the  cottage  had  two  entrances,  each  dis- 
tinct. But  the  general  impression  it  gave,  both  as  to  sight 
and  scent,  was  of  roses — nothing  but  roses. 

"How  are  you,  Mrs.  Tod?"  as  a  comely,  middle  aged  body 
appeared  at  the  right-hand  door-way,  dressed  sprucely  in  one 
of  those  things  Jael  called  a  "coat  and  jacket,"  likewise  a  red 
calamanco  petticoat  tucked  up  at  the  pocket-holes. 

"I  be  pretty  fair,  sir — be  you  the  same?  The  children 
ha'  not  forgotten  you — you  see,  Mr.  Halifax." 

"So  much  the  better!"  and  he  patted  two  or  three  little 
white  heads,  and  tossed  the  youngest  high  up  in  the  air.  It 
locked  very  strange  to  see  John  with  a  child  in  his  arms. 

"Don't  'ee  make  jnore  noise  than  'ee  can  help,  my  lad," 
the  good  woman  said  to  our  post-boy,  "because,  sir,  the  sick 
gentleman  bean't  so  well  again  to-day." 

"I  am  sorry  for  it.  We  would  not  have  driven  up  to  the 
door,  had  we  known.  Which  is  his  room?" 

Mrs.  Tod  pointed  to  a  window — not  on  our  side  of  the 
house,  but  the  other.  A  hand  was  just  closing  the  casement 
and  pulling  down  the  blind — a  hand  which  in  the  momen- 
tary glimpse  we  had  of  it,  seemed  less  like  a  man's  than  a 
woman's. 

When  we  were  settled  in  the  parlor,  John  noticed  this 
fact. 

"It  was  the  wife,  most  likely.  Poor  thing!  how  hard  to 
be  shut  up  in-doors  on  such  a  summer  evening  as  this!" 

It  did  seem  a  sad  sight — that  closed  window,  outside  which 
was  the  fresh,  balmy  air,  the  sunset,  and  the  roses. 

"And  how  do  you  like  Enderley?"  asked  John,  when,  tea 
being  over,  I  lay  and  rested,  where  he  sat  leaning  his  elbow 
on  the  window-sill,  and  his  cheek  against  a  bunch  of  those 
ever-intruding,  inquisitive  roses. 

"It  is  very,  very  pretty,  and  so  comfortable — almost  like 
home." 

"I  feel  as  if  it  were  home,"  John  said,  half  to  himself.  "Do 
you  know,  I  can  hardly  believe  that  I  have  only  seen  this 
place  once  before;  it  is  so  familiar.  I  seem  to  know  quite  well 
that  slope  of  common  before  the  door,  with  its  black  dots  of 
furze-bushes.  And  that  wood  below;  what  a  clear  line  its 


108  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

top  makes  against  the  yellow  sky!  There,  that  high  ground 
to  the  right]  it's  all  dusky  now,  but  it's  such  a  view  by  day- 
light. And  between  it  and  Enderley  is  the  prettiest  valley, 
where  the  road  slopes  down  just  under  those  chestnut-trees." 

"How  well  you  seem  to  know  the  place  already." 

"As  I  tell  you,  I  like  it.  I  hardly  ever  felt  so  content  be- 
fore. We  will  have  a  Jiappy  time,  Phineas." 

"Oh,  yes!"  How,  even  if  I  had  felt  differently,  could  I  say 
anything  but  "yes"  to  him  then? 

I  lay  until  it  grew  quite  dark,  and  I  could  only  see  a  dim 
shape  sitting  at  the  window,  instead  qf  John's  known  face; 
then  I  bade  him  good-night,  and  retired.  Directly  afterward, 
I  heard  him,  as  I  knew  he  would,  dash  out  of  the  house,  and 
away  up  the  Flat.  In  the  deep  quiet  of  this  lonely  spot  1 
could  distinguish,  for  several  minutes,  the  diminishing  sound 
of  his  footsteps  along  the  loose,  stony  road;  and  the  notes, 
clear  and  shrill,  of  his  whistling.  I  think  it  was  "Sally  in 
Our  Alley,"  or  some  such  pleasant  old  tune.  At  last  it  faded 
far  off,  and  I  fell  into  sleep  and  dreams. 


CHAPTEK  X. 

"That  Mrs.  Tod  is  an  extraordinary  woman.  I  repeat  it — 
a  most  extraordinary  woman." 

And  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  table,  from  which  the  said 
extraordinary  woman  had  just  removed  breakfast,  John 
looked  over  to  me  with  his  own  merry  brown  eyes. 

"Wherefore,  David?" 

"She  has  a  houseful  of  children,  yet  manages  fa  keep  it 
quiet,  and  her  own  temper  likewise.  Astonishing  patience! 
However  people  attain  it  who  have  to  do  with  brats,  I  can't 
imagine." 

"John!  that's  mean  hypocrisy.  I  saw  you  myself,  half  an 
hour  ago,  holding  the  eldest  Tod  boy  on  a  refractory  donkey, 
and  laughing  till  you  could  hardly  stand." 

"Did  I?"  said  he,  half-ashamed.  "Well,  it  was  only  to  keep 
the  little  scamp  from  making  a  noise  under  the  windows. 
And  that  reminds  me  of  another  remarkable  virtue  in  Mrs. 
Tod — she  can  hold  her  tongue." 

"How  go?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  109 

"In  two  whole  days  she  has  not  communicated  to  us  a  single 
fact  concerning  our  neighbors  on  the  other  half  of  Rose  Cot- 
tage." 

"Did  you  want  to  know?" 

John  laughingly  denied;  then  allowed  that  he  always  had 
a  certain  pleasure  in  eliciting  information  on  men  and  things. 

"The  wife  being  indicated,  I  suppose,  by  that  very  com- 
plimentary word  'thing.'  But  what  possible  interest  can  you 
have  in  either  the  old  gentleman  or  the  old  lady?" 

"Stop,  Phineas;  you  have  a  bad  habit  of  jumping  at  con- 
clusions. And  in  our  great  dearth  of  occupation  here,  I 
think  it  might  be  all  the  better  for  you  to  take  a  little  interest 
in  your  neighbors.  So  I've  a  great  mind  to  indulge  you  with 
an  important  idea,  suggestion,  discovery.  Harkee,  friend!" 
and  he  put  on  an  air  of  sentimental  mystery,  not  a  bad  copy 
of  our  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Charles.  "What  if  the — in- 
dividual should  not  be  an  old  lady  at  all?" 

"What!     The  old  gentleman's  wife?" 

"Wife?  ahem!  more  jumping  at  conclusions.  No;  let  us 
keep  on  the  safe  side,  and  call  her  the  individual.  In  short, 
the  owner  of  that  gray  silk  gown  I  saw  hanging  up  in  the 
kitchen.  I've  seen  it  again." 

"The  gray  gown!  when  and  where?" 

"This  morning  early.  I  walked  after  it  across  the  Flat,  a 
good  way  behind,  though;  for  I  thought  that  it — well,  let  me 
say  she — might  not  like  to  be  watched  or  followed.  She  was 
trotting  along  very  fast,  and  she  carried  a  little  basket,  I  fancy 
a  basket  of  eggs." 

"Capital  housekeeper!  excellent  wife!" 

"Once  more — I  have  my  doubts  on  that  latter  fact.  She 
walked  a  great  deal  quicker  and  merrier  than  any  wife  ought 
to  walk  when  her  husband  is  ill." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  John's  original  notions  of  con- 
jugal duty. 

"Besides,  Mrs.  Tod  always  calls  her  invalid  'the  old  gentle- 
man!' and  I  don't  believe  this  was  an  elderly  lady." 

"Nay,  old  men  do  sometimes  marry  young  women." 

"Yes,  but  it  is  always  a  pity,  and  sometimes  not  quite  right. 
No,"  and  I  was  amused  to  see  how  gravely  and  doggedly  John 
kept  to  his  point.  "Though  this  lady  did  not  look  like  a 
sylph  or  a  wood-nymph,  being  neither  very  small  nor  very 
slight,  and  having  a  comfortable  woolen  cloak  and  hood  over 


110  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

the  gray  silk  gown,  still,  I  don't  believe  she's  an  old  woman, 
or  married  either." 

"How  can  you  possibly  tell?    Did  you  see  her  face?" 

"Of  course  not,"  he  answered,  rather  indignantly.  "I 
should  not  think  it  manly  to  chase  a  lady  as  a  school-boy  does 
a  butterfly,  for  the  mere  gratification  of  staring  at  her.  I 
stayed  on  the  top  of  the  Flat  till  she  had  gone  in-doors." 

''Into  Eose  Cottage?" 

"Why,  yes." 

"She  had,  doubtless,  gone  to  fetch  new-laid  eggs  for  her — 
I  mean  for  the  sick  gentleman's  breakfast.  Kind  soul!" 

"You  may  jest,  Phineas,  but  I  think  she  is  a  kind  soul.  On 
her  way  home  I  saw  her  stop  twice;  once  to  speak  to  an  old 
woman  who  was  gathering  sticks;  and  again,  to  scold  a  lad  for 
thrashing  a  donkey." 

"Did  you  hear  her?" 

"No;  but  I  judge  from  the  lad's  penitent  face  as  I  passed 
him.  I  am  sure  she  had  been  scolding  him." 

"Then  she's  not  young,  depend  upon  it.  Your  beautiful 
young  creatures  never  scold." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  John,  meditatively.  "For 
my  part,  I  should  rather  not  cheat  myself,  or  be  cheated  after 
that  manner.  Perfection  is  impossible.  Better  see  the  young 
woman  as  she  really  is,  bad  and  good  together." 

"The  young  woman!     The  fair  divinity,  you  mean!" 

"No;"  shutting  his  mouth  over  the  negative  in  his  firm  way 
— "I  strongly  object  to  divinities.  How  unpleasant  it  would 
be  to  woo  an  angel  of  perfection,  and  find  her  out  at  last  to  be 
only — only  Mrs., " 

"Halifax,"  suggested  I;  at  which  he  laughed,  slightly  color- 
ing. 

"But  how  woful  must  be  our  dearth  of  subjects  when  we 
talk  such  nonsense  as  this!  What  suggested  it?" 

"Your  friend  in  the  gray  gown,  I  suppose." 

"Requiescat  in  pace!  May  she  enjoy  her  eggs!  And  now 
I  must  go  saddle  the  brown  mare  and  be  off  to  Norton  Bury. 
A  lovely  day  for  a  ride.  How  I  shall  dash  along!" 

He  rose  up  cheerily.  It  was  like  morning  sunshine  only 
to  see  his  face.  No  morbid  follies  had  ever  tainted  his 
healthy  nature,  whatsoever  romance  was  there — and  never 
was  there  a  thoroughly  noble  nature  without  some  romance 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  Ill 

ill  it.  But  it  lay  deep  down,  calm  and  unawakened.  His 
heart  was  as  light  and  free  as  air. 

Stooping  over  my  easy-chair,  he  wheeled  it  to  the  window 
in  sight  of  the  pleasant  view. 

"Now,  Phineas,  what  more  books  do  you  want?  You'll 
take  a  walk  before  dinner?  You'll  not  be  moping?" 

No;  why  should  I,  who  knew  I  had  always,  whether  absent 
or  present,  the  blessing,  the  infinite  blessing  of  being  first  in 
his  thoughts  and  cares?  Who,  whether  he  expressed  it  or 
not — the  best  things  never  are  expressed,  or  expressible — • 
knew  by  a  thousand  little  daily  acts  like  these,  the  depth  and 
tenderness  of  his  friendship,  his  brotherly  love  for  me.  As 
yet,  I  had  it  all.  And  God,  who  knows  how  little  else  I  had, 
will  pardon  if  in  my  unspeakable  thankfulness  lurked  a  taint 
of  selfish  joy  in  my  sole  possession  of  such  a  priceless  boon. 

He  lingered  about,  making  me  "all  right,"  as  he  called  it, 
and  planning  out  my  solitary  day.  With  much  merriment, 
too,  for  we  were  the  gayest  couple  of  young  bachelors,  when, 
as  John  said,  "the  duties  of  our  responsible  position"  would 
allow. 

"Eesponsible  position!  It's  our  good  landlady  who  ought 
to  talk  about  that.  With  two  sets  of  lodgers,  a  husband,  and 
an  indefinite  number  of  children.  There's  one  of  them  got 
into  mischief  at  last.  Hark!" 

"It's  Jack,  my  namesake.  Bless  my  life!  I  knew  he  would 
come  to  grief  with  that  donkey.  Hey,  lad!  never  mind,  get 
up  again." 

But  soon  he  perceived  that  the  accident  was  more  serious, 
and  disappeared  like  a  shot,  leaping  out  through  the  open 
window.  The  next  minute  I  saw  him  carrying  in  the  unlucky 
Jack,  who  was  bleeding  from  a  cut  on  the  forehead,  and 
screaming  vociferously. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  Mrs.  Tod;  it  is  very  slight.  I  saw 
it  .done.  Jack  my  lad!  be  a  man,  and  never  mind  it.  Don't 
scream  so;  you  alarm  your  mother." 

But  as  soon  as  the  good  woman  was  satisfied  that  there  was 
no  real  cause  for  terror,  hers  changed  into  hearty  wrath 
against  Jack  for  his  carelessness,  and  for  giving  so  much 
trouble  to  the  gentleman. 

"But  he  be  always  getting  into  mischief,  sir — that  boy. 
Three  months  back,  the  very  day  Mr.  March  came,  he  got 
playing  with  the  carriage-horse,  and  it  kicked  him  and  broke 


112  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

his  arm.  A  deal  he  cares;  he  be  just  as  sprack  as  ever.  As 
I  say  to  Tod — it  bean't  no  use  fretting  over  that  boy." 

"Have  patience/'  answered  John,  who  had  again  carried 
the  unfortunate  young  scapegrace  from  our  parlor  into  Mrs. 
Tod's  kitchen — the  center  room  of  the  cottage;  and  was  try- 
ing to  divert  the  torrent  of  maternal  indignation,  while  he 
helped  her  plaster  up  the  still  ugly-looking  wound.  "Come, 
forgive  the  lad.  He  will  be  more  sorry  afterward  than  if  you 
had  punished  him." 

"Do'ee  think  so?"  said  the  woman,  as  struck  either  by  the 
words,  the  manner,  or  the  tone,  she  looked  up  straight  at 
him.  "Do'ee  really  think  so,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Nothing  makes  one  so  good  as  being  for- 
given when  one  has  been  naughty.  Isn't  it  so,  Jack,  my 
namesake?" 

"Jack  ought  to  be  proud  o'  that,  sir,"  said  the  mother,  re- 
spectfully; "and  there's  some  sense  in  what  you  say,  too.  You 
talk  like  my  man  does,  o'  Sundays.  Tod  be  a  Scotchman, 
Mr.  Halifax;  and  they're  good  folks,  the  Scotch, and  read  their 
Bibles  hard.  There's  a  deal  about  forgiving  in  the  Bible, 
isn't  there,  sir?" 

"Exactly,"  John  answered,  smiling.  "And  so,  Jack,  you're 
safe  this  time;  only  you  must  not  disobey  your  mother  again, 
for  the  sake  of  donkeys  or  anything  else." 

"No,  sir — thank'ee,  sir,"  sobbed  Ja<ck,  humbly.  "Yon  be 
a  gentleman — Mr.  March  bean't — he  said  it  served  me  right 
for  getting  under  his  horses." 

"Hold  thy  tongue!"  said  Jack's  mother,  sharply;  for  the 
latch  of  the  opposite  door  was  just  then  lifted,  and  a  lady 
stood  there. 

"Mrs.  Tod,  my  father  says " 

Seeing  strangers,  the  lady  paused.  At  the  sound  of  her 
voice — a  pleasant  voice,  though  somewhat  quick  and  decided 
in  tone — John  and  I  both  involuntarily  turned.  We  felt  awk- 
ward! doubtful  whether  to  stay,  or  retire  abruptly.  She 
saved  us  the  choice. 

"Mrs.  Tod,  my  father  will  take  his  soup  at  eleven.  You 
will  remember?" 

"Yes,  Miss  March." 

Upon  which,  Miss  March  shut  the  door  at  once,  and  van- 
ished. 

She  wore  a  gray  silken  gown.    I  glanced  at  John,  but  he 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  113 

did  not  see  me;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  door,  which  had 
disclosed  and  concealed  the  momentary  picture.  Its  mo- 
mentariness  impressed  it  the  more  vividly  on  my  memory.  I 
have  it  there  still. 

A  girl,  in  early  but  not  precocious  maturity,  rather  tall,  of 
a  figure  built  more  for  activity  and  energy  than  the  mere 
fragility  of  sylph-like  grace;  dark-complexioned,  dark-eyed, 
dark-haired — the  whole  coloring  being  of  that  soft  darkness 
of  tone  which  gives  atsense  of  something  at  once  warm  and 
tender,  strong  and  womanly.  Thorough  woman  she  seemed 
— not  a  bit  of  the  angel  about  her.  Scarcely  beautiful;  and 
"pretty"  would  have  been  the  very  last  word  to  have  applied 
to  her;  but  there  was  around  her  an  atmosphere  of  freshness, 
health,  and  youth,  pleasant  as  a  breeze  in  spring. 

For  her  attire,  it  was  that  notable  gray  silk  gown — very 
simply  made,  with  no  fripperies  or  fandangoes  of  any  sort — 
reaching  up  to  her  throat  and  down  to  her  wrists,  where  it 
had  some  kind  of  trimming  of  white  fur,  which  made  the  skin 
beneath  show  exquisitely  delicate. 

"That  i&  Miss  March,"  said  our  landlady,  when  she  had  dis- 
appeared. 

"Is  it?"  said  John,  removing  his  eyes  from  the  shut  door. 

"She  be  very  sensible-like,  for  a  young  body  of  seventeen; 
more  sensible  and  pleasanter  than  her  father,  who  is  always 
ailing,  and  always  grumbling.  Poor  gentleman!  most  like 
he  can't  help  it.  But  it  be  terrible  hard  for  the  daughter — 
bean't  it,  sir?" 

"Very,"  said  John.     His  laconism  was  extraordinary. 

Still,  he  kept  standing  by  the  kitchen-table,  waiting  till  the 
last  bandage  had  been  sewn  on  Jack's  cut  forehead,  and  even 
some  minutes  after  his  protege  had  begun  playing  about  as 
usual.  It  was  I  who  had  to  suggest  that  we  should  not  in- 
trude on  Mrs.  Tod's  kitchen  any  longer. 

"No,  certainly  not.  Come,  Phineas.  Mrs.  Tod,  I  hope 
our  presence  did  not  inconvenience  the  young  lady?" 

"Bless  your  heart,  sir!  nothing  ever  inconveniences  she. 
There  bean't  a  pleasanter  young  body  alive.  She'll  often 
come  into  this  kitchen — just  as  you  did,  gentlemen,  and  very 
happy  to  see  you  always,'*  added  Mrs.  Tod,  courtesying. 
"When  Mr.  March  is  asleep,  she'll  come  and  sit  for  half  an 
hour,  talking  to  Tod  and  me,  and  playing  with  the  baby '* 

Here,  probably  at  the  sound  of  its  name,  the  individual 

8 


114  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

alluded  to  set  up,  from  its  cradle  in  the  corner,  such  a  terrific 
squall  that  we  young  men  beat  a  precipitate  retreat. 

"So  John,  your  gray  gown  is  discovered  at  last.  She's 
young  certainly — but  not  exactly  a  beauty." 

"I  never  said  she  was." 

"A  pleasant  person,  though;  hearty,  cheerful-looking,  and 
strong.  I  can  easily  imagine  her  trotting  over  the  common 
with  her  basket  of  eggs — chatting  to  the  old  woman  and 
scolding  the  naughty  boy." 

"Don't  make  fun  of  her.  She  must  have  a  hard  life  with 
her  old  father." 

Of  course,  seeing  him  take  it  up  so  seriously,  I  jested  no 
more. 

"By-the-by,  did  not  the  father's  name  strike  you?  March — 
suppose  it  should  turn  out  to  be  the  very  Mr.  March  you 
pulled  out  of  the  Severn  five  years  ago.  What  a  romantic 
conjuncture  of  circumstances!" 

"Nonsense,"  said  John,  quickly — more  quickly  than  he 
usually  spoke  to  me;  then  came  back  to  wish  me  a  kind  good- 
by.  "Take  care  of  yourself,  old  fellow.  It  will  be  nightfall 
before  I  am  back  from  Norton  Bury." 

I  watched  him  mount,  and  ride  slowly  down  the  bit  of  com- 
mon— turning  once  to  look  back  at  Eose  Cottage,  ere  he 
finally  disappeared  between  the  chestnut-trees;  a  goodly 
sight,  for  he  was  an  admirable  horseman. 

When  he  was  gone  I,  glancing  lazily  iip  at  Mr.  March's 
window,  saw  a  hand,  and,  I  fancied,  a  white-furred  wrist, 
pulling  down  the  blind.  It  amused  me  to  think  Miss  March 
might  possibly  have  been  watching  him  likewise. 

I  spent  the  whole  long  day  alone  in  the  cottage  parlor, 
chiefly  meditating;  though  more  than  once  friendly  Mrs.  Tod 
broke  in  upon  my  solitude.  She  treated  me  in  a  motherly, 
free-and-easy  way;  not  half  so  deferentially  as  she  treated 
John  Halifax. 

The  sun  had  gone  down  over  Nunnely  Hill,  behind  the  four 
tall  Italian  poplars  which  stood  on  the  border  of  our  bit  of 
wilderness — three  together  and  one  apart.  They  were  our 
landmarks — and  skymarks  too — for  the  first  sunbeam  com- 
ing across  the  common  struck  their  tops  of  a  morning,  and 
the  broad  western  glimmer  showed  their  forms  distinctly  un- 
til far  in  the  night.  They  were  just  near  enough  for  me  to 
hear  their  faint  rustling  in  windy  weather;  on  calm  days  they 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  115 

stood  up  straight  against  the  sky  like  memorial  columns. 
They  were  friends  of  mine — those  four  poplars;  sometimes 
they  almost  seemed  alive.  We  made  acquaintance  on  this 
first  night,  when  I  sat  watching  for  John;  and  we  kept  up  the 
friendship  ever  afterward. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  before  I  heard  the  old  mare's  hoofs  clat- 
tering up  the  road;  joyfully  I  ran  out. 

David  was  not  quite  his  youthful,  gay  self  that  night;  not 
quite,  as  he  expressed  it,  "the  David  of  the  sheep-folds."  He 
was  very  tired,  and  had  what  he  called  the  "tan-yard  feeling/' 
the  oppression  of  business  cares. 

"Times  are  hard,"  said  he,  when  we  had  finally  shut  out  the 
starlight,  and  Mrs.  Tod  had  lit  candies,  bade  us  good-night  in 
her  free,  independent  way,  and  "hoped  Mr.  Halifax  had  every- 
thing he  wanted."  She  always  seemed  to  consider  him  the 
head  of  our  little  menage. 

"The  times  are  very  hard,"  repeated  John,  thoughtfully. 
"I  don't  see  how  your  father  can  rightly  be  left  with  so  many 
anxieties  on  his  shoulders.  I  must  manage  to  get  to  Norton 
Bury  at  least  five  days  a  week.  You  will  have  enough  of  soli- 
tude, I  fear." 

"And  you  will  have  little  enough  of  the  pleasant  country 
life  you  planned,  and  which  you  seem  so  to  delight  in." 

"Never  mind,  perhaps  it  is  good  for  me.  I  have  a  life  of 
hard  work  before  me,  and  can't  afford  to  get  used  to  too  much 
pleasure.  But  we'll  make  the  most  of  every  bit  of  time  we 
have.  How  have  you  felt  to-day?  Strong?" 

"Very  strong.  Now,  what  would  you  like  us  to  do  to-mor- 
row?" 

"I  want  to  show  you  the  common  in  early  morning;  the 
view  there  is  so  lovely." 

"Of  nature,  or  human  nature?" 

He  half-smiled,  though  only  at  my  mischievousness.  I 
could  see  it  did  not  affect  him  in  the  least.  "Nay,  I  know 
what  you  mean;  but  I  had  forgotten  her;  or,  if  not  absolutely 
forgotten,  she  was  not  in  my  mind  just  then.  We  will  go 
another  way,  as  indeed  I  had  intended;  it  might  annoy  the 
young  lady,  our  meeting  her  again." 

His  grave,  easy  manner  of  treating  and  dismissing  the  sub- 
ject was  a  tacit  reproach  to  me.  I  let  the  matter  drop;  we 
had  much  more  serious  topics  afloat  than  gossip  about  our 
neighbors. 


116  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

At  seven  the  next  morning  we  were  out  on  the  Flat. 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  you  stand  here  in  the  dews,  Phineas. 
Come  a  little  further  on,  to  my  terrace,  as  I  call  it.  There's 
a  panorama!" 

It  was  indeed.  All  around  the  high  flat  a  valley  lay,  like  a 
moat,  or  as  if  some  broad  river  had  been  dried  up  in  its  course, 
and,  century  after  century,  gradually  converted  into  meadow, 
woodland,  and  town.  For  a  little  white  town  sat  demurely  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hollow,  and  a  score  or  two  of  white  cot- 
tages scattered  themselves  from  this  small  nucleus  of  civiliza- 
tion over  the  opposite  bank  of  this  imaginary  river,  which  was 
now  a  lovely  hill-side.  Gorges,  purple  with  shadow,  yellow 
cornfields,  and  dark  clumps  of  woodland  dressed  this  broad 
hill-side  in  many  colors;  its  highest  point,  Xunnely  Hill, 
forming  the  horizon  where  last  night  I  had  seen  the  sun  go 
down,  and  which  now  was  tinted  with  the  tenderest  western 
morning  gray. 

"Do  you  like  this,  Phineas?  I  do  very  much.  A  dear, 
smiling  English  valley,  holding  many  a  little  nest  of  an  Eng- 
lish home.  Fancy  being  patriarch  -over  such  a  region;  hav- 
ing the  whole  valley  in  one's  hand,  to  do  good  to,  or  ill.  You 
can't  think  what  primitive  people  they  are  hereabouts;  de- 
scendants from  an  old  colony  of  French  cloth-weavers,  they 
keep  to  the  trade.  Down  in  the  valley — if  one  could  see 
through  the  beech-wood — is  the  grand  support  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, a  large  cloth-mill!" 

"That's  quite  in  your  line,  John;"  and  I  saw  his  face 
brighten  up  as  it  had  done,  when,  as  a  boy,  he  had  talked  to 
me  about  his  machinery.  "What  has  become  of  that  won- 
derful little  loom  you  made?" 

"Oh!  I  have  it  still.  But  this  is  such  a  fine  cloth-mill!  I 
have  been  all  over  it.  ,  If  the  owner  would  put  aside  his  old 
Flemish  stolidity!,  I  do  believe  he  and  his  ancestors  have  gone 
on  in  the  same  way,  and  with  almost  the  same  machinery,  ever 
since  Queen  Elizabeth's  time.  Now,  just  one  or  two  of  our 
modern  improvements,  such  as — but  I  forget,  you  never  could 
understand  mechanics." 

"You  can,  though.     Explain  dearly,  and  I'll  try  my  best." 

He  did  so,  and  so  did  I.  I  think  he  even  managed  to  knock 
something  of  the  matter  into  my  stupid  head,  where  it  re- 
mained— for  ten  minutes!  Much  longer  remained  the  im- 
pression of  his  energetic  talk — his  clear-headed  way  of  put- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  117 

ting  before  another  what  he  understood  so  well  himself.  I 
marvelled  how  he  had  gained  all  his  information. 

"Oh!  it's  easy  enough,  when  one  has  a  natural  propensity 
for  catching  hold  of  facts;  and  then,  you  know  I  always  had  a 
weakness  for  machinery;  I  could  stand  for  an  hour  watching  a 
mill  at  work,  especially  if  it's  worked  by  a  great  water-wheel." 

"Would  you  like  to  be  a  mill-owner?" 

"Shouldn't  I!" — with  a  sunshiny  flash,  which  soon  clouded 
over.  "However,  'tis  idle  talking;  one  cannot  choose  one's 
calling — at  least,  very  few  can.  After  all,  it  isn't  the  trade 
that  signifies — it's  the  man.  I'm  a  tanner,  and  a  capital  tan- 
ner I  intend  to  be.  By-the-by,  I  wonder  if  Mrs.  Tod,  who 
talks  so  much  about  'gentle-folk,'  knows  that  latter  fact  about 
you  and  me?" 

"I  think  not;  I  hope  not.  Oh,  David!  this  one  month  at 
least  let  us  get  rid  of  the  tan-yard." 

For  I  hated  it  more  than  ever  now,  in  our  quiet,  free  Arca- 
dian life;  the  very  thought  of  it  was  insupportable,  not  only 
for  myself,  but  for  John. 

He  gently  blamed  me,  yet  I  think  he  involuntarily  felt 
much  as  I  did,  if  he  would  have  allowed  himself  so  to  feel. 

"Who  would  guess  now  that  I  who  stand  here  delighting 
myself  in  this  fresh  air  and  pleasant  view,  this  dewy  common, 
all  thick  with  flowers — what  a  pretty  blue  cluster  that  is  at 
your  foot,  Phineas! — who  would  guess  that  all  yesterday  I 
had  been  stirring  up  tan-pits,  handling  raw  hides?  Faugh! 
I  wonder  the  little  harebells  don't  sicken  in  these  my  hands — 
such  ugly  hands,  too!" 

"Nonsense,  John!  they're  not  so  bad,  indeed;  and  if  they 
were,  what  does  it  matter?" 

"You  are  right,  lad;  it  does  not  matter.  They  have  done 
me  good  service,  and  will  yet,  though  they  were  not  made  for 
carrying  nosegays." 

"There  is  somebody  besides  yourself  plucking  posies  on  the 
Flat.  See,  how  large  the  figure  looks  against  the  sky.  It 
might  be  your  Titaness,  John — 

"  'Like  Proserpina  gathering  flowers, 
Herself  the  fairest — ' 

— no,  not  fairest;  for  I  declare  she  looks  very  like  your  friend 
Gray-gown — I  beg  her  pardon — Miss  March." 


118  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

"It  is  she,"  said  John,  so  indifferently  that  I  suspect  that 
fact  had  presented  itself  to  him  for  at  least  two  minutes  bc- 
fcre  I  found  it  out. 

'•'There's  certainly  a  fatality  about  your  meeting  her." 

"Not  the  least.  She  has  this  morning  taken  a  walk  in  a 
different  direction,  as  I  did;  and  we  both  chanced  again  to  hit 
upon  the  same,"  answered  John,  gravely  and  explanatorily. 
"Come  away  down  the  slope.  We  must  not  intrude  upon  a 
lady's  enjoyments." 

He  carried  me  off,  much  against  my  will,  for  I  had  a  great 
wish  to  see  again  that  fresh  young  face,  so  earnest,  cheerful, 
and  good.  Also,  as  I  labored  in  vain  to  convince  my  com- 
panion, the  said  face  indicated  an  independent  dignity  which 
would  doubtless  make  its  owner  perfectly  indifferent  whether 
her  solitary  walk  were  crossed  by  two  gentlemen,  or  two  hun- 
dred. 

John  agreed  to  this;  nevertheless,  he  was  inexorable.  And, 
since  he  was  "a  man  of  the  world" — having  in  his  journeys  up 
and  down  the  country  for  my  father  occasionally  fallen  into 
"polite"  society — I  yielded  the  point  to  him,  and  submitted 
to  his  larger  experience  of  good-breeding. 

However,  Fate,  kinder  than  he,  took  the  knot  of  etiquette 
into  her  own  hands  and  broke  it. 

Close  to  the  cottage  door,  our  two  paths  converging,  and 
probably  our  breakfast  hours  likewise,  brought  us  suddenly 
face  to  face  with  Miss  March. 

She  saw  us,  and  we  had  a  distinct  sight  of  her. 

I  was  right;  we  and  our  contiguity  were  not  of  the  smallest 
importance  to  Miss  March.  Her  fresh  morning  roses  did  not 
deepen,  nor  her  eyes  droop,  as  she  looked  for  a  moment  at  us 
both — a  quiet,  maidenly  look  of  mere  observation.  Of  course, 
no  recognition  passed;  but  there  was  a  merry  dimple  beside 
her  mouth,  as  if  she  quite  well  knew  who  we  were,  and  owned 
to  a  little  harmless  feminine  curiosity  in  observing  us. 

She  had  to  pass  our  door,  where  stood  Mrs.  Tod  and  the 
baby.  It  stretched  out  its  little  arms  to  come  to  her,  with 
that  pretty,  babyish  gesture  which  I  suppose  no  woman  can 
resist.  Miss  March  could  not.  She  stopped  and  began  toss- 
ing up  the  child. 

Truly,  they  made  a  pleasant  picture,  the  two — she  with  her 
hooded  cloak  dropping  off,  showing  her  graceful  shape,  and 
her  dark-brown  hair,  all  gathered  up  in  a  mass  of  curls  at  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  119 

top  of  her  head,  as  the  fashion  then  was.  As  she  stood,  with 
her  eyes  sparkling,  and  the  young  blood  flushing  through  her 
clear,  brunette  cheeks,  I  was  not  sure  whether  I  had  not  judged 
too  hastily  in  calling  her  "no  beauty." 

Probably,  by  his  look,  John  thought  the  same. 

She  stood  right  before  our  wicket-gate;  but  she  had  evi- 
dently quite  forgotten  us,  so  happy  was  she  with  Mrs.  Tod's 
bonny  boy,  until  the  landlady  made  some  remark  about  "let- 
ting the  gentlemen  by."  Then,  with  a  slight  start,  drawing 
her  hood  back  over  her  head,  the  young  lady  stepped  aside. 

In  passing  her,  John  raised  his  eyes,  as  was  natural  enough. 
For  me,  I  could  hardly  take  mine  from  her,  such  a  pleasant 
creature  was  she  to  behold.  She  half  smiled,  he  bowed,  which 
she  returned,  courteously,  and  we  both  went  in-doors.  I  told 
him,  this  was  a  good  beginning  of  acquaintance  with  our 
neighbor. 

"Not  at  all,  no  acquaintance;  a  mere  civility  between  two 
people  living  under  the  same  roof.  It  will  never  be  more." 

"Probably  not." 

I  am  afraid  John  was  disappointed  at  my  "probably."  I 
am  afraid  that  when  he  stood  at  our  window,  contemplating 
the  little  group  which  rilled  up  our  wicket-gate,  he  missed 
some  one  out  of  the  three,  which,  I  suspect,  was  neither  Mrs. 
Tod  nor  yet  the  baby. 

"I  like  her  face  very  much  better  now,  David.    Do  you?" 

It  was  a  very  curious  fact,  which  I  never  noticed  till  after- 
ward, that  though  there  had  been  some  lapse  of  time  before  I 
hazarded  this  remark,  we  both  intuitively  supplied  the  noun 
to  that  indefinite  personal  pronoun. 

"A  good,  nay,  a  noble  face;  though  still,  with  those  irregular 
features,  I  can't,  really  I  can't,  call  her  beautiful." 

"Nor  I." 

"She  bowed  with  remarkable  grace,  too.  I  think,  John, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we  may  say  we  have  seen  a  lady." 

"Most  certainly  a  lady." 

"Nay,  I  only  meant  that,  girl  as  she  is,  she  is  evidently  ac- 
customed to  what  is  called  'society/  Which  makes  it  the 
more  likely  that  her  father  is  the  Mr.  March  who  was  cousin 
to  the  Brithwoods.  An  odd  coincidence." 

"A  very  odd  coincidence." 

After  which  brief  reply  John  relapsed  into  taciturnity. 

More  than  once  that  morning  we  recurred  to  the  subject  of 


120  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

our  neighbors;  that  is,  I  did,  but  John  was  rather  saturnine 
and  uncommunicative.  Nay,  when,  as  Mrs.  Tod  was  remov- 
ing the  breakfast,  I  ventured  to  ask  her  a  harmless  question 
or  two — who  Mr.  March  was,  and  where  he  came  from? — I  was 
abruptly  reproached,  the  very  minute  our  good  landlady  had 
shut  the  door,  for  iny  tendency  to  "gossip." 

At  which  I  only  laughed  and  reminded  him  that  he  had  in- 
geniously scolded  me  after,  not  before,  I  had  gained  the  de- 
sired information,  namely,  that  Mr.  March  was  a  gentleman 
of  independent  property;  that  he  had  no  friends  hereabouts; 
and  that  he  usually  lived  in  Wales. 

"He  cannot  be  our  Mr.  March,  then." 

"No,"  said  John,  with  an  air  of  great  relief. 

I  was  amused  to  see  how  seriously  he  took  such  a  trifle;  ay, 
many  a  time  that  day  I  laughed  at  him  for  evincing  such 
great  sympathy  over  our  neighbors,  and  especially — which 
was  plain  enough  to  see,  though  he  doubtless  believed  he  en- 
tirely disguised  it — for  that  interest  which  a  young  man  of 
twenty  would  naturally  take  in  a  very  charming  and  person- 
able young  woman.  Ay,  naturally,  as  I  said  to  myself,  for  I 
admired  her  too,  extremely, 

It  seems  strange  now  to  call  to  mind  that  morning,  and  our 
light-hearted  jests  about  Miss  March.  Strange  that  Destiny 
should  often  come  thus,  creeping  like  a  child  to  our  very 
doors;  we  hardly  notice  it,  or  send  it  away  with  a  laugh;  it 
comes  so  naturally,  so  simply,  so  accidentally,  as  it  were,  that 
we  recognize  it  not.  We  cannot  believe  that  the  baby  intruder 
is  in  reality  the  king  of  our  fortunes,  the  ruler  of  our  lives. 
But  so  it  is  continually;  and  since  it  is,  it  must  be  right. 

We  finished  the  morning  by  reading  Shakespeare — Romeo 
and  Juliet — at  which  the  old  folio  seemed  naturally  to  open. 
There  is  a  time — a  sweet  time,  too,  though  it  does  not  last — 
when  to  every  young  mind  the  play  of  plays,  the  poem  of 
poems,  is  Romeo  and  Juliet.  We  were  at  that  phase  now. 

John  read  it  all  through  to  me — not  for  the  first  time, 
either;  and  then,  thinking  I  had  fallen  asleep,  he  sat  with  the 
book  on  his  knee,  gazing  out  of  the  open  window. 

It  was  a  warm  summer  day — breathless,  soundless — a  day 
for  quietness  and  dreams.  Sometimes  a  bee  came  buzzing 
among  the  roses,  in  and  away  again,  like  a  happy  thought. 
Nothing  else  was  stirring;  not  a  single  bird  was  to  be  seen  or 
heard,  except  that  now  and  then  came  a  coo  of  the  wood-pig- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  121 

eons  among  the  beech,  trees — a  low,  tender  voice — reminding 
one  of  a  mother's  crooning  over  a  cradled  child;  or  of  two 
true  lovers  standing  clasped  heart  to  heart,  in  the  first  em- 
brace, which  finds  not,  and  needs  not,  a  single  word. 

John  sat  listening.  What  was  he  thinking  about?  Why 
that  strange  quiver  about  his  mouth?  Why  that  wonderful 
new  glow,  that  infinite  depth  of  softness  in  his  eyes? 

I  closed  mine.  He  never  knew  I  saw  him.  He  thought  I 
slept  placidly  through  that  half-hour,  which  seemed  to  him 
as  brief  as  a  minute.  To  me  it  was  long — ah,  so  long!  as  I  lay 
pondering  with  an  intensity  that  was  actual  pain,  on  what 
must  come  some  time;  and,  for  all  I  knew,  might  even  now  be 
coming. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  week  slipped  by.  We  had  grown  familiar  with  Enderley 
Hill — at  least,  I  had.  As  for  John,  he  had  little  enough  en- 
joyment of  the  pretty  spot  he  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to,  being 
absent  five  days  out  of  the  seven;  riding  away  when  the  morn- 
ing sun  had  slid  down  to  the  boles  of  my  four  poplars,  and 
never  coming  home  till  Venus  peeped  out  over  their  heads  at 
night.  It  was  hard  for  him;  but  he  bore  the  disappointment 
well. 

With  me  one  day  went  by  just  like  another.  In  the  morn- 
ings I  crept  out,  climbed  the  hill  behind  Rose  Cottage  garden, 
and  there  lay  a  little  under  the  verge  of  the  Flat,  in  a  sunny 
shelter,  watching  the  ants  running  in  and  out  of  the  numerous 
ant-hills  there;  or  else  I  turned  my  observation  to  the  short 
velvet  herbage  that  grew  everywhere  hereabouts;  for  the  com- 
mon, so  far  from  being  barren,  was  a  perfect  sheet  of  green- 
est, softest  turf,  sowed  with  minute  and  rare  flowers.  Often  a 
square  foot  of  ground  presented  me  with  enough  of  beauty 
and  variety  in  color  and  form,  to  criticise  and  contemplate  for 
a  full  hour. 

My  human  interests  were  not  extensive.  Sometimes  the 
Enderley  villagers,  or  the  Tod  children,  who  were  a  grade 
above  these,  and  decidedly  "respectable,"  would  appear  and 
have  a  game  of  play  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  their  laughter 
rising  up  to  where  I  lay.  Or  some  old  woman  would  come 
with  her  pails  to  the  spring  below,  a  curious  and  very  old  stone 
well,  to  which  the  cattle  from  the  common  often  rushed  down 


122  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

past  me  in  bevies,  and  stood  knee-deep,  their  mouths  making 
glancing  circles  in  the  water  as  they  drank. 

Being  out-of-doors  almost  all  day,  I  saw  very  little  of  the 
inhabitants  of  our  cottage.  Once  or  twice,  a  lady  and  gentle- 
man passed,  creeping  at  the  foot  of  the  slope,  so  slowly,  that  I 
felt  sure  it  must  be  Mr.  March  and  his  daughter.  He  was  tall, 
with  gray  hair;  I  was  not  near  enough  to  distinguish  his  fea- 
tures. She  walked  on  the  further  side,  supporting  him  with 
her  arm.  Her  comfortable  morning  hood  was  put  off,  and  she 
had  on  her  head  that  ugly,  stiff  thing  which  ladies  had  lately 
taken  to  wearing,  and  which,  Jael  said,  was  called  a  "bonnet." 

Except  on  these  two  occasions,  I  had  no  opportunity  of 
making  any  observations  on  the  manners  and  customs  of  our 
neighbors.  Occasionally  Mrs.  Tod  mentioned  them  in  her 
social  chatter,  while  laying  the  cloth;  but  it  was  always  in  the 
most  cursory  and  trivial  way,  such  as  "Miss  March  having 
begged  that  the  children  might  be  kept  quiet — Mrs.  Tod  hoped 
their  noise  didn't  disturb  me?  but  Mr.  March  was  such  a 
fidgety  gentleman — so  particular  in  his  dress,  too — why,  Miss 
March  had  to  iron  his  cravats  with  her  own  hands.  Besides, 
if  there  was  a  pin  awry  in  her  dress,  he  did  make  such  a  fuss — 
and,  really,  such  an  active,  busy  young  lady  couldn't  look  al- 
ways as  if  she  came  trim  out  of  a  bandbox.  Mr.  March  wanted 
so  much  waiting  on,  he  seemed  to  fancy  he  still  had  his  big 
house  in  Wales,  and  his  seven  servants." 

Mrs.  Tod  conversed  as  if  she  took  it  for  granted  I  was  fully 
acquainted  with  all  the  prior  history  of  her  inmates,  or  any 
others  that  she  mentioned — a  habit  peculiar  to  Enderley  folk 
with  strangers.  It  was  generally  rather  convenient,  and  it 
saved  much  listening;  but  in  this  case,  I  would  rather  have  had 
it  broken  through.  Sometimes  I  felt  strongly  inclined  to 
question  her;  but  on  consulting  John,  he  gave  his  veto  so  de~ 
cidedly  against  seeking  out  people's  private  affairs  in  such  an 
illicit  manner,  that  I  felt  quite  guilty,  and  began  to  doubt 
whether  my  sickly,  useless,  dreaming  life  was  not  inclining  me 
to  curiosity,  gossip,  and  other  small  vices  which  we  are  ac- 
customed— I  know  not  why — to  insult  the  other  sex,  by  de- 
scribing as  "womanish." 

As  I  have  said,  the  two  cottages  were  built  distinct,  so  that 
we  could  have  neither  sound  nor  sight  of  our  neighbors,  save 
upon  the  neutral  ground  of  Mrs.  Tod's  kitchen;  where,  how- 
ever I  might  have  felt  inclined  to  venture,  John's  prohibition 
stopped  me  entirely. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  123 

I 

Thus — save  the  two  days  when  he  was  at  home,  when  he  put 
me  on  his  mare's  back,  and  led  me  far  away,  over  common  and 
valley  and  hill,  for  miles,  only  coming  back  at  twilight — save 
those  two  blithe  days,  I  spent  the  week  in  dignified  solitude, 
and  was  very  thankful  for  Sunday. 

We  determined  to  make  it  a  long,  lovely  country  Sunday; 
so  we  began  it  at  six  a.  m.  John  took  me  a  new  walk  across 
the  common,  where  he  said,  in  answer  to  my  question — we 
were  quite  certain  not  to  meet  Miss  March. 

"Do  you  experimentalize  on  the  subject,  that  you  calculate 
her  paths  with  such  nicety?  Pray,  have  you  ever  met  her 
again,  for  I  know  you  have  been  out  most  mornings?" 

"Morning  is  the  only  time  I  have  for  walking,  you  know, 
Phineas." 

"Ah,  true!  You  have  little  pleasure  at  Enderley.  I  almost 
wish  we  could  go  home." 

"Don't  think  of  such  a  thing.  It's  doing  you  a  world  of 
good.  Indeed,  we  must  not,  on  any  account,  go  home." 

I  know,  and  knew  then,  that  his  anxiety  was  in  earnest;  that 
whatever  other  thoughts  might  lie  underneath,  the  sincere 
thought  of  me  was  the  one  uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"Well,  we'll  stay — that  is,  if  you  are  happy,  John." 

"Thoroughly  happy;  I  like  the  dashing  rides  to  Norton 
Bury.  Above  all,  I  like  coming  back.  The  minute  I  begin 
to  climb  Enderley  Hill,  the  tan-yard,  and  all  belonging  to  it, 
drops  off  like  an  incubus,  and  I  awake  into  free,  beautiful  life. 
Now,  Phineas,  confess;  is  not  this  common  a  lovely  place,  es- 
pecially of  a  morning?" 

"Ay,"  said  I,  smiling  at  his  energy.  "But  you  did  not  tell 
me  whether  you  had  met  Miss  March  again." 

"She  has  never  once  seen  me." 

"But  you  have  seen  her?     Answer  honestly." 

"Why  should  I  not?  Yes,  I  have  seen  her — once  or  twice 
or  so — but  never  in  any  way  that  could  annoy  her." 

"That  explains  why  you  have  become  so  well  acquainted 
with,  the  direction  of  her  walks?" 

He  colored  deeply.  "I  hope,  Phineas,  you  do  not  think  that 
— that  in  any  way  I  would  intrude  on  or  offend  a  lady?" 

"Nay,  don't  take  it  so  seriously — indeed,  I  meant  nothing 
of  the  kind.  It  would  be  quite  natural  if  a  young  man  like 
you  did  use  some  pains  to  look  at  such  a  'cunning  piece  of 
Nature's  handiwork  as  that  apple-cheeked  girl  of  seventeen." 

"Russet  apple.     She  is  brown,  you  know — a  real  'nut- 


124  JOHN  HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

browue  mayde,'  "  said  John,  recovering  his  gay  humor.  "Cer- 
tainly, I  like  to  look  at  her.  I  have  seen  many  a  face  that 
was  more  good-looking — never  one  that  looked  half  so  good." 

"Sententious,  that;"  yet  I  could  not  smile,  he  spoke  with 
such  earnestness.  Besides,  it  was  the  truth.  I  myself  would 
have  walked  half-Avay  across  the  common  any  day  for  a  glance 
at  Miss  March.  Why  not  he? 

"But,  John,  you  never  told  me  that  you  had  seen  her 
again." 

"Because  you  never  asked  me." 

We  were  silent.  Silent  until  we  had  walked  along  the 
whole  length  of  a  Roman  encampment,  the  most  perfect  of 
the  various  fosses  that  seamed  the  flat — tokens  of  many  a 
battle  fought  on  such  capital  battle-ground,  and  which  John 
had  this  morning  especially  brought  me  to  look  at. 

"Yes,"  I  said  at  last,  putting  the  ending  affirmative  to  a 
long  train  of  thought,  which  was  certainly  not  about  Roman 
encampments;  "yes,  it  is  quite  natural  that  you  should  admire 
her.  It  would  even  be  quite  natural,  and  not  unlikely,  either, 
if  8he " 

"Pshaw!"  interrupted  he.  "What  nonsense  you  are  talking! 
Impossible!"  and  setting  his  foot  sharply  upon  a  loose  stone, 
he  kicked  it  down  into  the  ditch,  where  probably  many  a  dead 
Roman  had  fallen  before  it  in  ages  gone  by. 

The  impetuous  gesture — the  energetic  "impossible,"  struck 
me  less  than  the  quickness  with  which  his  mind  had  worked 
out  my  unexpressed  thought — carrying  it  to  a  greater  length 
than  I  myself  had  ever  contemplated. 

"Truly,  no  possibilities  or  impossibilities  of  that  sort  ever 
entered  my  head.  I  only  thought  you  might  admire  her,  and 
be  unsettled  thereby  as  young  men  are  when  they  take  fancies. 
That  would  grieve  me  very  much,  John.'' 

"Don't  let  it  then.  Why,  I  have  only  seen  her  five  times; 
I  never  spoke  to  her  in  my  life,  and  most  probably  never  shall 
do.  Could  any  one  be  in  a  safer  position?  Besides,"  and  his 
tone  changed  to  extreme  gravity,  "I  have  too  many  worldly 
cares  to  think  of;  I  can't  afford  the  harmless  little  amusement 
of  falling  in  love — so  be  easy,  Phineas." 

I  smiled;  and  we  began  a  discussion  on  camps  and  fosses, 
vallum  and  praetorium;  the  Danes,  Saxons,  and  Normans; 
which,  doubtless,  we  carried  on  to  a  most  learned  length;  but 
at  this  distance  of  time,  and  indeed  the  very  day  after,  I  plead 
guilty  to  having  forgotten  all  about  it. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  12S 

That,  long,  quiet  Sunday,  when,  I  remember,  the  sun  never 
came  out  all  day;  but  the  whole  earth  and  sky  melted  .to- 
gether in  a  soft,  gray  haze;  when  we  lay  on  the  common  and 
heard  church  bells  ringing,  some  distant,  some  near;  and, 
after  all  was  quiet,  talked  our  own  old  Sabbath  talks,  of  this 
world  and  the  world  to  come;  when,  toward  twilight,  we  went 
down  into  the  beech-wood  below  the  house,  and  sat  idly  there 
among  the  pleasant-smelling  ferns;  when,  from  the  morning 
to  the  evening,  he  devoted  himself  altogether  to  my  comfort 
and  amusement — to  perfect  which  required  of  him  no  harder 
duty  than  to  be  nearer  me  always;  that  Sunday  was  the  last  1 
ever  had  David  for  my  own — my  very  own. 

It  was  natural,  it  was  just,  it  was  right.  God  forbid  that  in 
any  way  I  should  have  murmured. 

About  ten  o'clock — just  as  he  was  luring  me  out  to  see  how 
grand  the  common  looked  under  the  black  night,  and  we  were 
wondering  whether  or  no  the  household  were  in  bed — Mrs. 
Tod  came  mysteriously  into  the  parlor,  and  shut  the  door  after 
her.  Her  round,  fresh  face  looked  somewhat  troubled. 

"Mr.  Halifax,  might  I  speak  a  word  to  'ee,  sir?" 

"With  pleasure.  Sit  down,  Mrs.  Tod.  There's  nothing 
wrong  with  your  children?" 

"No,  I  thank'ee.  You  are  very  kind,  sir.  No,  it  be  about 
the  poor  Miss  March." 

I  could  see  John's  fingers  twitch  over  the  chair  he  was  lean- 
ing on.  "I  hope "  he  began,  and  stopped. 

"Her  father  is  dreadful  bad  to-night,  and  it's  a  good  seven- 
mile  walk  to  the  doctor's  at  S ;  and  Miss  March  says — 

that  is,  she  don't,  for  I  bean't  going  to  tell  her  a  word  about 
it — but  I  think,  Mr.  Halifax,  if  I  might  make  so  bold,  it  would 
be  a  great  kindness  in  a  young  gentleman  like  you  to  lend  Tod 
your  mare  to  ride  over  and  fetch  the  doctor." 

"I  will,  gladly.     At  once?" 

"Tod  bean't  come  in  yet." 

"He  shall  have  the  mare  with  pleasure.  Tell  Miss  March 
so — I  mean,  do  not  tell  her,  of  course.  It  was  very  right  of 
you  to  come  to  us  in  this  way,  Mrs.  Tod.  Really,  it  would  be 
almost  a  treat  to  be  ill  in  your  house — you  are  so  kind." 

"Thank'ee,  Mr.  Halifax,"  said  the  honest  landlady,  greatly 
delighted.  "But  a  body  couldn't  help  doing  anything  for 
Miss  March.  You  would  think  so  yourself,  if  you  only  knew 
her." 

"No  doubt/'  returned  John,  more  politely  than  warmly,  I 


126  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

fancied,  as  he  closed  the  door  after  the  retreating  figure  of 
Mrs.  Tod.  But  when  he  came  and  sat  down  again,  I  saw  he 
was  rather  thoughtful.  He  turned  the  books  restlessly,  one 
after  the  other,  and  could  not  settle  to  anything.  To  all  my 
speculations  about  our  sick  neighbor,  and  our  pearl  of  kind- 
hearted  landladies,  he  only  replied  in  monosyllables;  at  last  he 
started  up  and  said: 

"Phineas,  I  think  I'll  go  myself." 

'•Where?" 

"To  fetch  Dr.  Brown.  If  Tod  is  not  come  in,  it  would  be 
but  a  common  charity.  And  I  know  the  way/' 

"But  the  dark  night?" 

"Oh,  no  matter;  the  mare  will  be  safer  under  me  than  a 
stranger.  And  though  I  have  taken  good  care  that  the  three 
horses  in  the  tan-yard  shall  have  the  journey,  turn  and  turn 
about;  still  it's  a  good  pull  from  here  to  Norton  Bury,  and  the 
mare's  my  favorite.  I  would  rather  take  her  myself." 

I  smiled  at  his  numerous  good  reasons  for  doing  such  a  very 
simple  thing;  and  agreed  that  it  was  right  and  best  he  should 
do  it. 

"Then,  shall  I  call  Mrs.  Tod  and  inquire?  Or  perhaps  it 
might  make  less  fuss  just  to  go  and  speak  to  her  in  the  kitch- 
en. Will  you,  Phineas,  or  shall  I  ?" 

Scarcely  waiting  my  answer,  he  walked  from  our  parlor  into 
what  I  called  the  Debatable  Land. 

No  one  was  there.  We  remained  several  minutes  all  alone, 
listening  to  the  groanings  overhead. 

"That  must  be  Mr.  March,  John." 

"I  hear.  Good  heavens!  how  hard  for  her.  And  she  such 
a  young  thing,  and  alone,"  muttered  he,  as  he  stood  gazing 
into  the  dull  wood  embers  of  the  kitchen  fire.  I  saw  he  was 
moved;  but  the  expression  on  his  face  was  one  of  pure  and  holy 
compassion.  That  at  this  moment  no  less  unselfish  feeling 
mingled  with  it,  I  am  sure. 

Mrs.  Tod  appeared  at  the  door  leading  to  the  other  half  of 
the  cottage;  she  was  apparently  speaking  to  Miss  March  on 
the  staircase.  We  heard  again  those  clear,  quick,  decided 
tones,  but  subdued  to  a  half -whisper. 

"No,  Mrs.  Tod,  I  am  not  sorry  you  did  it — on  my  father's 
account  'tis  best.  Tell  Mr. ,  the  young  gentleman,  I  for- 
get his  name,  that  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  him." 

"I  will,  Miss  March.  Stay,  he  is  just  here.  Bless  us!  she 
has  shut  the  door  already.  Won't  you  take  a  seat,  Mr.  Hali- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  127 

fax?  I'll  stir  up  the  fire  in  a  minute,  Mr.  Fletcher.  You  are 
always  welcome  in  my  kitchen,  young  gentlemen."  And  Mrs. 
Tod  bustled  about,  well  aware  what  a  cosy  and  cheerful  old- 
fashioned  kitchen  it  was,  especially  of  evenings. 

But  when  John  explained  the  reason  of  our  intrusion,  there 
was  no  end  to  her  pleasure  and  gratitude.  He  was  the  kind- 
est young  gentleman  that  ever  lived.  She  would  tell  Miss 
March  so;  as,  indeed,  she  had  done  many  a  time. 

"  'Miss/  said  I  to  her  the  first  day  I  set  eyes  on  you,  when 
*  I  had  told  her  how  you  came  hunting  for  lodgings — (she  often 
has  a  chat  with  me  quite  freely,  being  so  lonesome-like  and 
knowing  I  to  be  too  proud  myself  to  forget  that  she's  a  born 
lady) — 'miss,'  said  I,  'who  Mr.  Halifax  may  be  I  don't  know, 
but  depend  upon  it  he's  a  real  gentleman.' " 

I  was  the  sole  amused  auditor  of  this  speech,  for  John  had 
vanished.  In  a  few  minutes  more  he  had  brought  the  mare 
round,  and  after  a  word  or  two  with  me,  was  clattering  down 
the  road. 

I  wondered  whether  this  time  any  white-furred  wrist  stirred 
the  blind  to  watch  him. 

John  was  away  a  wonderfully  short  time,  and  the  doctor 
rode  back  with  him.  They  parted  at  the  gate,  and  he  came 
into  our  parlor,  his  cheeks  all  glowing  with  the  ride.  He  only 
remarked  that  "the  autumn  nights  were  getting  chill,"  and 
sat  down.  The  kitchen  clock  struck  one. 

"You  ought  to  have  been  in  bed  hours  ago,  Phineas.  Will 
you  not  go?  I  shall  sit  up  just  a  little  while  to  hear  how  Mr. 
March  is." 

"I  should  like  to  hear,  too.  It  is  curious  the  interest  that 
one  learns  to  take  in  people  that  are  absolute  strangers,  when 
shut  up  together  in  a  lonely  place  like  this,  especially  when 
they  are  in  trouble." 

"Ay,  that's  it,"  said  he,  quickly.  "It's  the  solitude,  and 
their  being  in  trouble.  Did  you  hear  anything  more  while  I 
was  away?" 

"Only  that  Mr.  March  was  rather  better,  and  everybody  had 
gone  to  bed  except  his  daughter  and  Mrs.  Tod." 

"Plark!  I  think  that's  the  doctor  going  away.  I  wonder  if 
one  might  ask — no!  they  would  think  it  intrusive.  He  must 
be  better.  But  Dr.  Brown  told  me  that  in  one  of  these  parox- 
ysms he  might —  Oh,  that  poor  young  thing!" 

"Has  she  no  relatives,  no  brothers  or  sisters?  Dr.  Brown 
surely  knows." 


128        .  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"I  did  not  like  to  ask,  but  I  fancy  not.  However,  that's  not 
my  business;  my  business  is  to  get  you  off  to  bed,  Phineas 
Fletcher,  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"Wait  one  minute,  John.  Let  us  go  and  see  if  we  can  do 
anything  more." 

"Ay,  if  we  can  do  anything  more,"  repeated  he,  as  we  again 
recrossed  the  boundary-line,  and  entered  the  Tod  country. 

All  was  quiet  there.     The  kitchen  fire  burned  brightly,  and 
a  cricket  sang  in  merry  solitude  on  the  hearth;  the  groans  over- 
head were  stilled,  but  we  heard  low  talking,  and  presently  * 
stealthy  footsteps  crept  down-stairs.     It  was  Mrs.  Tod  and 
Miss  March. 

We  ought  to  have  left  the  kitchen;  I  think  John  muttered 
something  to  that  effect,  and  even  made  a  slight  movement  to- 
ward the  door;  but — I  don't  know  how  it  was — we  stayed. 

She  came  and  stood  by  the  fire,  scarcely  noticing  us.  Her 
fresh  cheeks  were  faded,  and  she  had  the  weary  look  of  one 
who  has  watched  for  many  hours.  Some  sort  of  white  dimity 
gown  that  she  wore  added  to  this  paleness. 

"I  think  he  is  better,  Mrs.  Tod — decidedly  better,"  said 
she,  speaking  quickly.  "You  ought  to  go  to  bed  now.  Let 
all  the  house  be  quiet.  I  hope  you  .told  Mr. Oh ' 

She  saw  us,  stopped,  and  for  the  moment  the  faintest  tinge 
of  her  roses  returned.  Presently  she  acknowledged  us  with 
a  slight  bend. 

John  came  forward.  I  had  expected  some  awkwardness  on 
his  part;  but  no,  he  was  thinking  too  little  of  himself  for  that. 
His  demeanor — earnest,  gentle,  kind — was  the  sublimation  of 
all  manly  courtesy. 

"I  hope,  madam" — young  men  used  the  deferential  word 
in  those  days  always — "I  do  hope  that  Mr.  March  is  better. 
We  were  unwilling  to  retire  until  we  had  heard." 

"Thank  you.  My  father  is  much  better.  You  are  very 
kind,"  said  Miss  March,  with  a  maidenly  drooping  of  the 
eyes. 

"Indeed  he  is  kind,"  broke  in  warm-hearted  Mrs.  Tod.  "He 
rode  all  the  way  to  S his  own  self,  to  fetch  the  doctor." 

"Did  you,  sir?    I  thought  you  only  lent  your  horse." 

"Oh!  I  like  a  night  ride.  And  you  are  sure,  madam,  that 
your  father  is  better  ?  Is  there  nothing  else  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

His  sweet,  grave  manner,  so  much  graver  and  older  than  hi;' 
years,  softened  too  with  that  quiet  deference  which  marked  at 
once  the  man  who  reverenced  all  women,  simply  for  their 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  129 

womanhood — seemed  entirely  to  reassure  the  young  lady.  This 
and  her  own  frankness  of  character  made  her  forget,  as  she 
apparently  did,  the  fact  that  she  was  a  young  lady  and  he  a 
young  gentleman,  meeting  on  unacknowledged  neutral  ground 
perfect  strangers,  or  knowing  no  more  of  one  another  than  the 
mere  surname. 

Nature,  sincerity  and  simplicity  conquered  all  trammels  of 
formal  custom.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  him. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Halifax.  If  I  wanted  help  I 
would  ask  you;  indeed,  I  would." 

"Thank  you.      Good-night." 

He  pressed  the  hand  with  reverence — and  was  gone.  I  saw 
Miss  March  look  after  him;  then  she  turned  to  speak,  and 
smiled  with  me.  A  light  word,  an  easy  smile,  as  to  a  poor 
invalid  whom  she  had  often  pitied,  out  of  the  fullness  of  her 
womanly  heart. 

Soon  I  followed  John  into  the  parlor.  He  asked  me  no 
questions,  made  no  remarks,  only  took  his  candle  and  went 
upstairs. 

But  years  afterward,  he  confessed  to  me  that  the  touch  of 
that  hand — it  was  rather  a  peculiar  hand  in  the  "feel"  of  it?  as 
the  children  say,  with  a  very  soft  palm,  and  fingers  that  had 
a  habit  of  perpetually  fluttering,  like  a  little  bird's  wing — the 
touch  of  that  hand  was  to  the  young  man  like  the  revelation  of 
a  new  world. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  next  day  John  rode  away,  earlier  even  than  was  his 
wont,  I  thought.  He  stayed  but  a  little  while  talking  with 
me.  While  Mrs.  Tod  was  bustling  over  our  breakfast,  he 
asked  her,  in  a  grave  and  unconcerned  manner,  "How  Mr. 
March  was  this  morning?"  which  was  the  only  allusion  he 
made  to  the  previous  night's  occurrences. 

I  hacl  a  long,  quiet  day  alone  in  the  beech- wood,  close  below 
our  cottage,  sitting  by  the  little  runnel,  now  worn  to  a  thread 
with  the  summer  weather,  but  singing  still.  It  talked  to  me 
like  a  living  thing. 

When  I  came  home  in  the  evening,  Miss  March  stood  in 
front  of  the  cottage,  with,  strange  to  say,  her  father.  But  I 
had  heard  that  his  paroxysms  were  often  of  brief  continuance, 
and  that,  like  most  confirmed  valetudinarians,  when  real  dan- 

9 


130  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ger  stared  him  in  the  face,  he  put  it  from  him,  and  was  glad 
to  be  well. 

Seeing  me  coming,  Miss  March  whispered  to  him;  he  turned 
upon  me  a  listless  gaze  from  over  his  fur  collar,  and  bowed 
languidly,  without  rising  from  his  easy-chair.  Yes,  it  was 
Mr.  March,  the  very  Mr.  March  we  had  met!  I  knew  him, 
changed  though  he  was;  but  he  did  not  know  me  in  the  least, 
as,  indeed,  was  not  likely. 

His  daughter  came  a  step  or  two  to  meet  me.  "You  are 
better,  I  see,  Mr.  Fletcher.  Enderley  is  a  most  healthy  place, 
as  I  try  to  persuade  my  father!  This  is  Mr.  Fletcher,  sir,  the 
gentleman  who " 

"Was  so  obliging  as  to  ride  to  S ,  last  night,  for  me? 

Allow  me  to  thank  him  myself." 

I  began  to  disclaim,  and  Miss  March  to  explain;  but  we 
must  both  have  been  slightly  incoherent,  for  I  think  the  poor 
gentleman  was  never  quite  clear  as  to  who  it  was  that  went  for 
Dr.  Brown.  However,  that  mattered  little,  as  his  acknowl- 
edgments were  evidently  dictated  more  by  a  natural  habit  of 
courtesy  than  by  any  strong  sense  of  service  rendered. 

"I  am  a  very  great  invalid,  sir.  My  dear,  will  you  explain 
to  the  gentleman?"  And  he  leaned  his  head  back  wearily. 

"My  father  has  never  recovered  his  ten  years'  residence  in 
the  West  Indies." 

"  'Residence?'  Pardon  me,  my  dear,  you  forget  I  was  gov- 
ernor of ." 

"Oh,  yes!  The  climate  is  very  trying  there,  Mr.  Fletcher. 
But  since  he  has  been  in  England — five  years  only — he  has 
been  very  much  better.  I  hope  he  will  be  quite  well  in  time." 

Mr.  March  shook  his  head  drearily.  Poor  man!  the  world 
of  existence  to  him  seemed  to  have  melted  lazily  down  into  a 
mere  nebula,  of  which  the  forlorn  neucleus  was  himself.  What 
a  life  for  any  young  creature,  even  his  own  daughter,  to  be 
bound  to  continually! 

I  could  not  help  remarking  the  strong  contrast  between 
them.  He  with  his  sallow,  delicately-shaped  features — the 
thin  mouth,  and  long,  straight  nose,  of  that  form  I  have  heard 
called  the  "melancholy  nose,"  which  usually  indicates  a  feeble, 
pensive,  and  hypochondriac  temperament;  while  his  daughter 
.  But  I  have  described  her  already. 

Mr.  Fletcher  is  an  invalid,  too,  father,"  she  said;  so  gently, 
that  I  could  feel  no  pain  in  her  noticing  my  infirmity;  and 
took  gratefully  a  seat  she  gave  me  beside  that  of  Mr.  March. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  131 

She  seemed  inclined  to  talk  to  me;  and  her  manner  was  per- 
fectly easy,  friendly,  and  kind. 

We  spoke  of  commonplace  subjects  near  at  hand,  and  of  the 
West  Indian  islands,  which  its  late  "governor"  was  apparently 
by  no  means  inclined  to  forget.  I  asked  Miss  March  whether 
she  had  liked  it? 

"I  was  never  there.  Papa  was  obliged  to  leave  me  behind 
in  Wales — poor  mamma's  country.  Were  you  ever  in  Wales? 
I  like  it  so!  Indeed,  I  feel  as  if  I  belonged  altogether  to  the 
mountains." 

And  saying  this,  she  looked  the  very  incarnation  of  the  free 
mountain  spirit — a  little  rugged,  perhaps,  and  sharply  out- 
lined; but  that  would  soften  with  time,  and  was  better  and 
wholsomer  than  any  tame  green  level  of  soft  perfection.  At 
least,  one  inclined  to  think  so,  looking  at  her.  * 

I  liked  Miss  March  very  much,  and  was  glad  of  it. 

In  retiring,  with  her  father  leaning  on  her  arm,  to  which  he 
hung  trustingly  and  feebly  as  a  child,  she  turned  abruptly,  and 
asked  if  she  could  lend  me  any  books  to  read?  I  must  find 
the  days  long  and  dull  without  my  friend. 

I  assented  with  thanks;  and  shortly  afterward  she  brought 
me  an  armful  of  literature — enough  to  have  caused  any  young 
damsel  to  have  been  dubbed  a  "blue/'  in  those  matter-of-fact 
days. 

"I  have  no  time  to  study  much  myself,"  said  she,  in  answer 
to  my  questions;  "but  I  like  those  who  do.  Now  good-even- 
ing, for  I  must  run.  You  and  your  friend  can  have  any  books 
of  ours.  You  must  not  think" — and  she  turned  back  to  tell 
me  this — "that  because  my  father  said  little,  he  and  I  are  not 
deeply  grateful  for  the  kindness  Mr.  Halifax  showed  us  last 
night." 

"It  was  a  pleasure  to  John — it  always  is — to  do  a  kind  office 
for  any  one." 

"I  well  believe  that,  Mr.  Fletcher."     And  she  left  me. 

When  John  came  home  I  informed  him  of  what  had  passed. 
He  listened,  though  he  made  no  comment  whatever.  But  all 
the  evening  he  sat  turning  over  Miss  March's  books  and  read- 
ing, either  aloud  or  to  himself,  fragments  out  of  one — which  I 
had  expected  he  would  have  scouted,  inasmuch  as  it  was  mod- 
ern, not  classical  poetry;  in  fact,  a  collection  of  Lyrical  Bal- 
lads, brought  out  that  year  by  a  young  man  named  Mr. William 
Wordsworth,  and  some  anonymous  friend,  conjointly.  I  had 
opened  it  and  found  therein  great  nonsense;  but  John  had 


132  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

better  luck — he  hit  upon  a  short  poem  called  "Love,"  by  the 
Anonymous  Friend,  which  he  read,  and  I  listened  to,  almost 
as  if  it  had  been  Shakespeare.  It  was  about  a  girl  named 
Genevieve — a  little  simple  story — everybody  knows  it  now;  but 
it  was  like  a  strange,  low,  mystic  music,  luring  the  very  heart 
out  of  one's  bosom,  to  us  young  visionaries  then. 

I  wonder  if  Miss  March  knew  the  harm  she  did,  and  the  mis- 
chief that  has  been  done  among  young  people  in  all  ages 
(since  Caxton's  days)  by  the  lending  books,  especially  books 
of  poetry. 

The  next  day  John  was  in  a  curious  mood.  Dreamy,  Ia2y, 
mild;  he  sat  poring  indoors  instead  of  roaming  abroad — in 
truth,  was  a  changed  lad.  I  told  him  so,  and  laid  it  all  to  the 
blame  of  the  Anonymous  Friend:  who  held  him  in  such  fasci- 
nated thrall  that  he  only  looked  up  once  all  the  morning — 
which  was  when  Mr.  and  Miss  March  went  by.  In  the  after- 
noon he  submitted,  lamb-like,  to  be  led  down  to  the  beech- 
wood — that  the  wonderful  talking  stream  might  hold  forth 
to  him  as  it  did  to  me.  But  it  could  not — ah,  no!  it  could 
not.  Our  lives,  though  so  close,  were  yet  as  distinct  as  the 
musical  living  water  and  the  motionless  gray  rock  beside  which 
it  ran.  The  one  swept  joyfully  on  to  its  appointed  course: 
the  other  was  what  Heaven  made  it,  abode  where  Heaven 
placed  it,  and  likewise  fulfilled  its  end. 

Coming  back  out  of  the  little  wood,  I  took  John  a  new  way 
I  had  discovered,  through  the  prettiest  undulating  meadow, 
half -field,  half-orchard,  where  trees  loaded  with  ripening  cider 
apples  and  green  crabs  made  a  variety  among  the  natural  for- 
esters. Under  one  of  these,  as  we  climbed  the  slope — for  field, 
beech-wood,  and  common  formed  a  gradual  ascent — we  sa\v 
a  vacant  table  laid. 

"A  pretty  piece  of  rusticity — domestic  Arcadia  on  a  small 
scale,"  said  John.  "I  should  like  to  invite  myself  to  tea  with 
them.  Who  can  they  be?" 

"Probably  visitors.  Resident  country-folks  like  their  meals 
best  under  a  decent  roof-tree.  I  should  not  wonder  if  this 
were  not  one  of  Mr.  March's  vagaries." 

"Don't  say  vagaries — he  is  an  old  man." 

"Don't  be  reproachful — I  shall  say  naught  against  him. 
Indeed,  I  have  no  opportunity,  for  there  they  both  are  com- 
ing hither  from  the  house." 

Sure  enough  they  were — Miss  March  helping  her  father 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  133 

across  the  uneven  bit  of  common  to  the  gate  which  led  to  the 
field.  Precisely  at  that  gate  we  all  four  met. 

"  "Pis  useless  to  escape  them/'  whispered  I  to  John. 

"I  do  not  wish — why  should  I?"  he  answered,  and  held  the 
gate  open  for  the  father  and  daughter  to  go  through.  She 
looked  up  and  acknowledged  him,  smiling.  I  thought  that 
smile  and  his  courteous,  but  far  less  frank  response  to  it,  would 
have  been  all  the  greeting;  but  no!  Mr.  March's  dull  percep- 
tions had  somehow  been  brightened  up.  He  stopped. 

"Mr.  Halifax,  I  believe?" 

John  bowed. 

They  stood  a  moment  looking  at  one  another;  the  tall,  stal- 
wart young  man,  so  graceful  and  free  in  bearing,  and  the  old 
man,  languid,  sickly,  prematurely  broken  down. 

"Sir,"  said  the  elder,  and  in  his  fixed  gaze  I  fancied  I  de- 
tected something  more  than  curiosity — something  of  the  lin- 
gering pensiveness  with  which  years  ago,  he  had  turned  back 
to  look  at  John — as  if  the  lad  reminded  him  of  some  one  he 
knew.  "Sir,  I  have  to  thank  you." 

"Indeed  no  thanks  are  needed.  I  sincerely  hope  you  are 
better  to-day?" 

Mr.  March  assented:  but  John's  countenance  apparently  in- 
terested him  so  much  that  he  forgot  his  usual  complainings. 
"My  daughter  tells  me  you  are  our  neighbors — I  am  happy  to 
have  such  friendly  ones.  My  dear,"  in  a  half  audible,  pensive 
whisper  to  her,  "I  think  your  poor  brother  Walter  would  have 
grown  up  extremely  like  Mr. — Mr. " 

"Mr.  Halifax,  papa." 

"Mr.  Halifax,  we  are  going  to  take  tea  under  the  trees  there 
— my  daughter's  suggestion — she  is  so  fond  of  rurality.  Will 
you  give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company?  You  and" — here, 
I  must  confess,  the  second  invitation  came  in  reply  to  a  glance 
of  Miss  March's — "your  friend." 

Of  course  we  assented;  I  considerably  amused,  and  not  ill- 
pleased,  to  see  how  naturally  it  fell  out  that  when  John  ap- 
peared in  the  scene,  I,  Phineas,  subsided  into  the  secondary 
character  of  John's  "friend." 

Very  soon,  so  soon  that  our  novel  position  seemed  like  an 
adventure  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights — we  found  ourselves  es- 
tablished under  the  apple-tree,  between  whose  branches  the 
low  sun  stole  in,  kissing  in  red  chestnut-color  the  hair  of  the 
"nut-browne  mayde,"  as  she  sat,  bareheaded,  pouring  into 
small  white  china  cups  that  dainty  luxury,  tea.  She  had  on 


134  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

— not  the  gray  gown,  but  a  white  one,  worked  in  delicate  mus- 
lin. A  branch  of  those  small  pinky-white  roses  that  grew  in 
such  clusters  about  our  parlor  window,  nestled,  almost  as  if 
they  were  still  growing,  in  her  fair  maiden  bosom. 

She  apologized  for  little  Jack's  having  "stolen"  them  from 
our  domains  for  her — lucky  Jack!  and  received  some  brief  and 
rather  incoherent  answer  from  John,  about  being  "quite  wel- 
come." 

He  sat  opposite  her,  I  by  her  side — she  had  placed  me  there. 
It  struck  me  as  strange  that,  though  her  manner  to  us  both 
was  thoroughly  frank  and  kind,  it  was  a  shade  more  frank, 
more  kind  to  me  than  to  him.  Also,  I  noted  that,  while  she 
chatted  gayly  with  me,  John  almost  entirely  confined  his  talk 
to  her  father. 

But  the  young  lady  listened — ay,  undoubtedly  she  listened 
— to  every  word  that  was  said.  I  did  not  wonder  at  it;  when 
his  tongue  was  once  unloosed  few  people  could  talk  better 
than  John  Halifax.  Not  that  he  was  one  of  your  showy  con- 
versationalists; language  was  with  him  neither  a  science,  an 
art,  nor  an  accomplishment,  but  a  mere  vehicle  for  thought; 
the  garb  always  chosen  as  simplest  and  fittest,  in  which  his 
ideas  were  clothed.  His  conversation  was  never  wearisome, 
since  he  only  spoke  when  he  had  something  to  say;  and  hav- 
ing said  it  in  the  most  concise  and  appropriate  manner  that 
suggested  itself  at  the  time,  he  was  silent;  and  silence  is  a 
great  and  rare  virtue  at  twenty  years  of  age. 

We  talked  a  good  deal  about  Wales;  John  had  been  there 
more  than  once  in  his  journey  ings;  and  this  fact  seemed  to 
warm  Miss  March's  manner,  rather  shy  and  reserved  though  it 
was,  at  least  to  him.  She  told  us  many  an  innocent  tale  of  her 
life  there,  of  her  childish  days,  and  of  her  dear  old  governess, 
whose  name,  I  remember,  was  Cardigan.  She  seemed  to  have 
grown  up  solely  under  that  lady's  charge.  It  was  not  difficult 
to  guess — though  I  forget  whether  she  distinctly  told  us  so — 
that  "poor  mamma"  had  died  so  early  as  to  become  a  mere 
name  to  her  orphan  daughter.  She  evidently  owed  every- 
thing she  was  to  this  good  governess. 

"My  dear,"  at  last  said  Mr.  March,  rather  testily,  "you  make 
rather  too  much  of  our  excellent  Jane  Cardigan.  She  is  going 
to  be  married,  and  she  will  not  care  for  you  now." 

"Hush,  papa!  that  is  a  secret  at  present.  Pray,  Mr.  Halifax, 
do  you  know  Norton  Bury?" 

The  abruptness  of  the  question  startled  John,  so  that  he 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  135 

only  answered  in  a  hurried  affirmative.  Indeed,  Mr.  March 
left  him  no  time  for  further  explanation. 

"I  hate  the  place.  My  late  wife's  cousins,  the  Brithwoods 
of  the  Mythe,  with  whom  I  have  had — ahem! — strong  politi- 
cal differences — live  there.  And  I  was  once  nearly  drowned 
in  the  Severn,  close  by." 

"Papa,  don't  speak  of  that,  please,"  said  Miss  March,  hur- 
riedly; so  hurriedly,  that  I  am  sure  she  did  not  notice  what 
would  otherwise  have  been  plain  enough — John's  sudden  and 
violent  color.  But  the  flush  died  down  again — he  never  spoke 
a  word.  And,  of  course,  acting  on  his  evident  desire,  neither 
did  I. 

"For  my  part,"  continued  the  young  lady,  "I  have  no  dis- 
like to  Norton  Bury.  Indeed,  I  rather  admired  the  place,  if  I 
remember  right." 

"You  have  been  there?"  Though  it  was  the  simplest  ques- 
tion, John's  sudden  look  at  her,  and  the  soft  inflection  of  his 
voice,  struck  me  as  peculiar. 

"Once,  when  I  was  about  twelve  years  old.  But  we  will  talk 
of  something  papa  likes  better.  I  am  sure  papa  enjoys  this 
lovely  evening.  Hark!  how  the  doves  are  cooing  in  the  beech- 
wood!" 

I  asked  her  if  she  had  ever  been  in  the  beech-wood. 

No;  she  was  quite  unacquainted  with  its  mysteries — the 
fern-glades,  the  woodbine  tangles,  and  the  stream,  that,  if  you 
listened  attentively,  you  could  hear  faintly  gurgling  even 
where  we  sat. 

"I  did  not  know  there  was  a  stream  so  near.  I  have  gen- 
erally taken  my  walks  across  the  Flat,"  said  Miss  March,  smil- 
ing, and  then  blushing  at  having  done  so,  though  it  was  the 
faintest  blush  imaginable. 

Neither  of  us  made  any  reply. 

Mr.  March  settled  himself  to  laziness  and  his  arm-chair;  the 
conversation  fell  to  the  three  younger  persons — I  may  say 
the  two — for  I  also  seceded,  and  left  John  master  of  the  fieW. 
It  was  enough  for  me  to  sit  listening  to  him  and  Miss  March, 
as  they  gradually  became  more  friendly;  a  circumstance  nat- 
ural enough,  under  the  influence  of  that  simple,  solitary  place, 
where  all  the  pretences  of  etiquette  seemed  naturally  to  drop 
away,  leaving  nothing  but  the  forms  dictated  and  preserved 
by  true  manliness  and  true  womanliness. 

How  young  both  looked,  how  happy  in  their  frank,  free 
youth,  with  the  sun-rays  slanting  down  upon  them,  making  a 


136  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

glory  round  either  head,  and — as  glory  often  does — dazzling 
painfully! 

"Will  you  change  seats  with  me,  Miss  March  ?  The  sun  will 
not  reach  your  eyes  there." 

She  declined,  refusing  to  punish  any  one  for  her  conven- 
ience. 

"It  would  not  be  punishment,"  said  John,  so  gravely  that 
one  did  not  recognize  it  for  a  "pretty  speech"  till  it  had  passed, 
and  went  on  with  their  conversation.  In  the  course  of  it,  he 
managed  so  carefully,  and  at  the  same  time  so  carelessly,  to 
interpose  his  broad  hat  between  the  sun  and  her,  that  the  fiery 
old  king  went  down  in  splendor  before  she  noticed  that  she 
had  been  thus  guarded  and  sheltered.  Though  she  did  not 
speak — why  should  she? — of  such  a  little  thing,  yet  it  was  one 
of  those  "little  things"  which  often  touch  a  woman  more  than 
any  words. 

Miss  March  rose.  "I  should  greatly  like  to  hear  your  stream 
and  its  wonderful  singing."  (John  Halifax  had  been  telling 
how  it  held  forth  to  me  during  my  long,  lonely  days.)  "I 
wonder  what  it  would  say  to  me?  Can  we  hear  it  from  the 
bottom  of  this  field?" 

"Not  clearly;  we  had  better  go  into  the  wood."  For  I  knew 
John  would  like  that,  though  he  was  too  great  a  hypocrite  to 
second  my  proposal  by  a  single  word. 

Miss  March  was  more  single-minded,  or  else  had  no  reason 
for  being  the  contrary.  She  agreed  to  my  plan  with  childish 
eagerness.  Papa,  you  wouldn't  miss  me — I  shall  not  be  away 
five  minutes.  Then,  Mr.  Fletcher,  will  you  go  with  me?" 

"And  I  will  stay  beside  Mr.  March  so  that  he  will  not  be  left 
alone,"  said  John,  reseating  himself. 

What  did  the  lad  do  that  for?  Why  did  he  sit  watching  us 
so  intently,  as  I  led  Miss  March  down  the  meadow  and  into 
the  wood?  It  passed  my  comprehension. 

The  young  girl  walked  with  me,  as  she  talked  with  me,  in 
perfect  simplicity  and  frankness,  free  from  the  smallest  hesi- 
tation; even  as  the  women  I  have  known  have  treated  me  all 
my  life,  showing  me  that  sisterly  trust  and  sisterly  kindness 
which  have  compensated  in  a  measure  for  the  solitary  fate 
which  it  pleased  Heaven  to  lay  upon  me;  which,  in  any  case, 
conscience  would  have  forced  me  to  lay  upon  myself — that  no 
woman  should  ever  be  more  to  me  than  a  sister. 

Yet  I  watched  her  with  pleasure,  this  young  girl,  as  she 
tripped  on  before  me,  noticing  everything,  enjoying  every- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  137 

thing.  She  talked  to  me  a  good  deal  too  about  myself,  in  her 
kindly  way,  asking  what  I  did  all  day,  and  if  I  were  not  rather 
dull  sometimes  in  this  solitary  country  lodging? 

"I  am  dull  occasionally  myself,  or  should  be,  if  I  had  time 
to  think  about  it.  It  is  hard  to  be  an  only  child." 

I  told  her  I  had  never  found  it  so. 

"But  then  you  have  your  friend.  Has  Mr.  Halifax  any 
brothers  or  sisters?'"' 

"None.     No  relatives  living." 

"Ah!"  a  compassionate  ejaculation,  as  she  pulled  a  wood- 
bine spray,  and  began  twisting  it  with  those  never-quiet  fingers 
of  hers.  "You  and  he  seem  to  be  great  friends?" 

"John  is  a  brother,  friend,  everything  in  the  world  to  me." 

"Is  he?  He  must  be  very  good.  Indeed,  he  looks  so,"  ob- 
served Miss  March,  thoughtfully.  "And  I  believe — at  least 
I  have  often  heard — that  good  men  are  rare." 

I  had  no  time  to  enter  into  that  momentous  question,  when 
the  origin  of  it  himself  appeared,  breaking  through  the  bushes 
to  join  us. 

He  apologized  for  so  doing,  saying  Mr.  March  had  sent  him. 

"You  surely  do  not  mean  that  you  come  upon  compulsion. 
What  an  ill  compliment  to  this  lovely  wood." 

And  the  eyes  of  the  "nut-browne  mayde"  were  a  little  mis- 
chievous. John  looked  preternaturally  grave,  as  he  said,  "I 
trust  you  do  not  object  to  my  coming?" 

She  smiled  so  merrily  that  his  slight  haughtiness  evaporated 
like  mist  before  the  sunbeams. 

"I  was  obliged  to  startle  you  by  jumping  through  the  bush- 
es; for  I  heard  my  own  name.  What  terrible  revelations  has 
this  friend  of  mine  been  making  to  you,  Miss  March?" 

He  spoke  gayly;  but  I  fancy  he  looked  uneasy.  The  young 
lady  only  laughed. 

"I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Halifax." 

"Not  when  I  ask  you?" 

He  spoke  so  seriously  that  she  could  not  choose  but  reply. 

"Mr.  Fletcher  was  telling  me  three  simple  facts:  First, 
that  you  were  an  orphan,  without  relatives.  Secondly,  that 
you  were  his  dearest  friend.  Thirdly, — well,  I  never  com- 
promise truth — that  you  were  good." 

'And  you?" 

"The  first  I  was  ignorant  of;  the  second  I  had  already 
guessed;  the  third " 

He  gazed  at  her  intently. 


138  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"The  third  I  had  likewise — not  doubted." 

John  made  some  hurried  acknowledgment.  He  looked 
greatly  pleased,  nay,  more  than  pleased,  happy.  He  walked 
forward  by  Miss  March's  side,  taking  his  natural  place  in  the 
conversation,  while  I  as  naturally  as  willingly  fell  behind.  But 
I  heard  all  they  said,  and  joined  in  it  now  and  then. 

Thus,  sometimes  spoken  to,  and  sometimes  left  silent  watch- 
ing their  two  figures,  and  idly  noting  their  comparative 
heights — her  head  came  just  above  John's  shoulder — I  fol- 
lowed these  young  people  through  the  quiet  wood. 

Let  me  say  a  word  about  that  wood — dear  and  familiar  as  it 
was.  Its  like  I  have  never  since  seen.  It  was  small — so  small 
that  in  its  darkest  depths  you  might  catch  the  sunshine  light- 
ing up  the  branches  of  its  outside  trees.  A  young  wood,  too 
— composed  wholly  of  smooth-barked  beeches  and  sturdy 
Scotch  firs,  growing  up  side  by  side — the  Adam  and  Eve,  in 
this  forest  Eden.  No  old  folk  were  there — no  gnarled  and 
withered  foresters — every  tree  rose  up,  upright  in  its  youth, 
and  perfect  after  its  kind.  There  was  as  yet  no  choking  un- 
dergrowth of  vegetation;  nothing  but  mosses,  woodbine,  and 
ferns;  and  between  the  boles  of  the  trees  you  could  trace  vista 
after  vista,  as  between  the  slender  pillars  of  a  cathedral  aisle. 

John  pointed  out  all  this  to  Miss  March,  especially  noticing 
the  peculiar  character  of  the  two  species  of  trees — the  mascu- 
line and  feminine — fir  and  beech.  She  smiled  at  the  fancy; 
and  much  graceful  badinage  went  on  between  them.  I  had 
never  before  seen  John  in  the  company  of  women,  and  I  mar- 
velled to  perceive  the  refinement  of  his  language,  and  the 
poetic  ideas  it  clothed.  I  forgot  the  truth — of  whose  saying 
was  it? — "that  once  in  his  life  every  man  becomes  a  poet." 

They  stood  by  the  little  rivulet,  and  he  showed  her  how  the 
water  came  from  the  spring  above;  the  old  well-head  where 
the  cattle  drank:  how  it  took  its  course  merrily  through  the 
woods,  till  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley  below  it  grew  into  a 
wide  stream. 

"Small  beginnings  make  great  endings,"  observed  Miss 
March,  sententiously. 

John  answered  her  with  the  happiest  smile!  He  dipped  his 
hollowed  palm  into  the  water,  and  drank:  she  did  the  same. 
Then,  in  her  free-hearted  girlish  fun,  she  formed  a  cup  of  a 
broad  leaf,  which,  by  the  greatest  ingenuity,  she  managed  to 
make  contain  about  two  teaspoonfuls  of  water  for  the  space  of 
half  a  minute,  and  held  it  to  my  mouth. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  139 

"I  am  like  Kebecca  at  the  well.  Drink,  Eleazer,"  she  cried, 
gayly. 

John  looked  on.  "I  am  very  thirsty,  too,"  said  he,  in  a  IOM- 
voice. 

The  young  girl  hesitated  a  moment;  then  filled  and  offered 
to  him  the  Arcadian  cup.  I  fear  he  drank  out  of  it  a  deeper 
and  more  subtle  draught  than  that  innocent  water. 

Both  became  somewhat  grave,  and  stood,  one  on  either  side 
the  stream,  looking  down  upon  it,  letting  its  bubbling  murmur 
have  all  the  talk.  What  it  said,  I  know  not;  I  only  know  that 
it  did  not,  could  not,  say  to  those  two  what  it  said  to  me. 

When  we  took  leave  of  our  acquaintances,  Mr.  March  was 
extremely  courteous,  and  declared  our  society  would  always  be 
a  pleasure  to  himself  and  his  daughter. 

"He  always  says  so  formally,  'my  daughter,' "  I  observed, 
breaking  the  silence  in  which  they  had  left  us.  "I  wonder 
what  her  Christian  name  is." 

"I  believe  it  is  Ursula." 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?" 

"It  is  written  in  one  of  her  books." 

"Ursula!"  I  repeated,  wondering  where  I  had  heard  it  be- 
fore. "A  pretty  name." 

"A  very  pretty  name." 

When  John  fell  into  this  echo  mood,  I  always  found  it  best 
to  fall  into  taciturnity. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

« 

Next  day  the  rain  poured  down  incessantly,  sweeping  blind- 
ingly  across  the  hills  as  I  have  rarely  seen  it  sweep  except  at 
Enderley.  The  weather  had  apparently  broken  up,  even  thus 
early  in  the  autumn;  and  for  that  day,  and  several  days  fol- 
lowing, we  had  nothing  but  wind,  rain,  and  storm.  The  sky 
was  as  dusky  as  Miss  March's  gray  gown;  broken  sometimes  in 
the  evening  by  a  rift  of  misty  gold,  gleaming  over  Nunnely 
Hill,  as  if  to  show  us  what  September  sunsets  might  have 
been. 

John  went  every  day  to  Norton  Bury  that  week.  His  mind 
seemed  restless — he  was  doubly  kind  and  attentive  to  me;  but 
every  night  I  heard  him  go  out  in  all  the  storm  to  walk  upon 
the  common.  I  longed  to  follow  him,  but  it  was  best  not. 


140  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

On  the  Saturday  morning,  coming  up  to  breakfast,  I  heard 
him  ask  Mrs.  Tod  how  Mr.  March  was.  We  knew  the  invalid 
had  been  ailing  all  the  week,  nor  had  we  seen  him  or  his 
daughter  once. 

Mrs.  Tod  shook  her  head  ominously.  "He  is  very  bad,  sir; 
badder  than  ever,  I  do  think.  She  sits  up  wi'  him  best  part  of 
every  night." 

"I  imagined  so.     I  have  seen  her  light  burning." 

"Law,  Mr.  Halifax!  you  don't  be  walking  abroad  of  nights 
on  the  Flat?  It's  terrible  bad  for  your  health,"  cried  the  hon- 
est soul,  who  never  disguised  the  fact  that  Mr.  Halifax  was 
her  favorite  of  all  her  lodgers,  save  and  except  Miss  March. 

"Thank  you  for  considering  my  health,"  he  replied,  smiling. 
"Only  tell  me,  Mrs.  Tod,  can  anything  be  done — can  we  do 
anything  for  that  poor  gentleman?" 

"Nothing,  sir — thank'ee  all  the  same." 

"If  he  should  grow  worse  let  me  go  for  Dr.  Brown.  I  shall 
be  at  home  all  day." 

"I'll  tell  Miss  March  of  your  kindness,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Tod, 
as  with  a  troubled  countenance  she  disappeared. 

"Were  you  not  going  to  Norton  Bury  to-day,  John?" 

"I  was;  but,  as  it  is  a  matter  of  no  moment,  I  have  changed 
my  mind.  You  have  been  left  so  much  alone  lately.  Nay — 
I'll  not  disguise  the  truth;  I  had  another  reason." 

"May  I  know  it?" 

"Of  course  you  may.  It  is  about  our  fellow-lodgers.  Dr. 
Brown — I  met  him  on  the  road  this  morning — told  me  that 
her  father  cannot  live  more  than  a  few  days — perhaps  a  few 
hours.  And  she  does  not  know  it." 

Us  leaned  on  the  mantel-piece.  I  could  see  he  was  very 
much  affected. 

So  was  I. 

"Her  relatives — surely  they  oiTght  to  be  sent  for." 

"She  has  none.  Dr.  Brown  said  she  once  told  him  so;  none 
nearer  than  the  Brithwoods  of  the  Mythe — and  we  know  what 
the  Brithwoods  are." 

A  young  gentleman  and  his  young  wife — proverbially  the 
gayest,  proudest,  most  light-hearted  of  all  our  county  families. 

"Nay,  Phineas,  I  will  not  have  you  trouble  yourself.  And, 
after  all,  they  are  mere  strangers — mere  strangers.  Come,  sit- 
down  to  breakfast." 

But  he  could  not  eat.    He  could  not  talk  of  ordinary  things. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  141 

Every  minute  he  fell  into  abstractions.  At  length  he  said, 
suddenly: 

"Phineas,  I  do  think  it  is  wicked,  downright  wicked,  for  a 
doctor  to  be  afraid  of  telling  a  patient  he  is  going  to  die — 
more  wicked,  perhaps,  to  keep  the  friends  in  ignorance,  until 
the  last  stunning  blow  falls.  She  ought  to  be  told;  she  must 
be  told ;  she  may  have  many  things  to  say  to  her  poor  father. 
And  God  help  her!  for  such  a  stroke  she  ought  to  be  a  little 
prepared.  It  might  kill  her  else!" 

He  rose  up  and  walked  about  the  room.  The  seal  once 
taken  from  his  reserve,  he  expressed  himself  to  me  freely,  as 
he  had  used  to  do — perhaps  because  at  this  time  his  feeling 
required  no  disguise.  The  dreams  which  might  have  peopled 
that  beautiful  sunset  wood,  necessarily  faded  in  an  atmosphere 
like  this — filled  with  the  solemn  gloom  of  impending  death. 

At  last  he  paused  in  his  hurried  walk,  quieted,  perhaps,  by 
what  he  might  have  read  in  my  ever-following  eyes. 

"I  know  you  are  as  grieved  as  I  am,  Phineas.  What  can  we 
do?  Let  us  forget  that  they  are  strangers,  and  act  as  one 
Christian  ought  to  another.  Do  you  not  think  she  ought  to 
be  told?" 

"Most  decidedly.     They  might  get  further  advice." 

"That  would  be  vain.  Dr.  Brown  says  it  is  a  hopeless  case, 
has  been  so  for  long;  but  he  would  not  believe  it,  nor  have  his 
daughter  told.  He  clings  to  life  desperately.  How  horrible 
for  her!" 

"You  think  most  of  her." 

"I  do,"  said  he,  firmly.  "He  is  reaping  what  he  sowed, 
poor  man!  God  knows,  I  pity  him.  But  she  is  as  good  as  an 
angel  of  heaven." 

It  was  evident  that,  somehow  or  other,  John  had  learned  a 
great  deal  about  the  father  and  daughter.  However,  now  was 
not  the  time  to  question  him;  for,  at  this  moment,  through  the 
opened  doors,  we  heard  faint  moans  that  pierced  the  whole 
house,  and  too  surely  came  from  the  sick,  possibly,  the  dying 
man.  Mrs.  Tod,  who  had  been  seeing  Dr.  Brown  to  his  horse, 
now  entered  our  parlor,  pale,  with  swollen  eyes. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Halifax!"  and  the  kind  soul  burst  out  into  crying 
afresh.  John  made  her  sit  down,  and  gave  her  a  glass  of 
wine. 

"I've  been  with  them  since  four  this  morning,  and  it  makes 
me  weakly  like,"  said  she,  "That  poor  Mr.  March,  I  didn't 


142  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

like  him  very  much  alive,  but  I  do  feel  so  sorry  now  he's  a- 
dying" 

Then  he  was  dying. 

''Does  his  daughter  know?"  I  asked. 

"No,  no,  I  dare  not  tell  her.     Nobody  dare." 

"Does  she  not  guess  it?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Poor  young  body!  she's  never  seen  anybody  so. 
She  fancies  him  no  worse  than  he  has  been,  and  has  got  over  it. 
She  wouldn't  think  else.  She  be  a  good  daughter  to  him,  that 
she  be!" 

We  all  sat  silent;  and  then  John  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "Mrs. 
Tod,  she  ought  to  be  told,  and  you  would  be  the  best  person  to 
tell  her." 

But  the  soft-hearted  landlady  recoiled  from  the  task.  "If 
Tod  were  at  home  now — he  that  is  so  full  o'  wisdom  learnt  in 
'the  kirk' " 

"I  think,"  said  John,  hastily  interrupting,  "that  a  woman 
would  be  the  best.  But  if  you  object,  and  as  Dr.  Brown  will 
not  be  here  till  to-morrow,  and  as  there  is  no  one  else  to  per- 
form such  a  trying  duty,  it  seems — that  is,  I  believe" — here 
his  rather  formal  speech  failed.  He  ended  it  abruptly — "If 
you  like,  I  will  tell  her  myself." 

Mrs.  Tod  overwhelmed  him  with  thankfulness. 

"How  shall  I  meet  her,  then?  If  it  were  done  by  chance, 
it  would  be  best." 

"I'll  manage  it  somehow.  The  house  is  very  quiet;  I've 
sent  all  the  children  away,  except  the  baby.  The  bab/11  com- 
fort her,  poor  dear,  afterward."  And,  again  drying  her  hon- 
est eyes,  Mrs.  Tod  ran  out  of  the  room. 

We  could  do  nothing  at  all  that  morning.  The  impending 
sorrow  might  have  been  our  own,  instead  of  that  of  people 
who  three  weeks  ago  were  perfect  strangers.  We  sat  and 
talked — less,  perhaps,  of  them  individually,  than  of  the  dark 
Angel,  whom  face  to  face  I  at  least  had  never  yet  known — who 
even  now  stood  at  the  door  of  our  little  habitation,  making  its 
various  inmates  feel  as  one  family,  in  the  presence  of  the  great 
leveller  of  all  things — Death. 

Hour  by  hour  of  that  long  day,  the  rain  fell  down — pouring 
— pouring — shutting  us  up,  as  it  were,  from  the  world  with- 
out, and  obliterating  every  thought,  save  of  what  was  happen- 
ing under  our  one  roof — that  awful  change  which  was  takinsr 
place  in  the  upper  room  in  the  other  half  of  the  house,  whence 
the  moans  descended,  and  whence  Mrs.  Tod  came  out  from 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  142 

time  to  time,  hurrying  mournfully  to  inform  "Mr.  Halifax" 
how  things  went  on. 

It  was  nearly  dusk  before  she  told  us  Mr.  March  was  asleep, 
that  his  daughter  had  at  last  been  persuaded  to  come  down 
stairs,  and  was  standing  drinking  aa  cup  o'  tea"  by  the  kitchen 
fire. 

"You  must  go  now,  sir;  she'll  not  stop  five  minutes.  Please 
go." 

"I  will,"  he  answered;  but  he  turned  frightfully  pale. 
"Phineas,  don't  let  her  see  us  both.  Stay  without  the  door. 
If  there  were  anybody  to  tell  her  this  but  me!" 

"Do  you  hesitate?" 

"No— no." 

And  he  went  out.  I  did  not  follow  him,  but  I  heard  after- 
ward, both  from  himself  and  Mrs.  Tod,  what  transpired. 

She  was  standing  so  absorbed  that  she  did  not  notice  his 
entrance.  She  looked  years  older  and  sadder  than  the  young 
girl  who  had  stood  by  the  stream-side  less  than  a  week  ago. 
When  she  turned  and  spoke  to  John,  it  was  with  a  manner  also 
changed.  No  hesitation,  no  shyness;  trouble  had  put  aside 
both. 

"Thank  you,  my  father  is  indeed  seriously  ill.  I  am  in 
great  trouble,  you  see,  though  Mrs.  Tod  is  very,  very  kind. 
Don't  cry  so,  good  Mrs.  Tod;  I  can't  cry,  I  dare  not.  If  I  once 
began,  I  should  never  stop,  and  then  how  could  I  help  my  poor 
father?  There  now,  there!" 

She  laid  her  hand,  with  its  soft,  fluttering  motions,  on  the 
good  woman's  shoulder,  and  looked  up  at  John.  He  said  af- 
terward that  those  dry,  tearless  eyes  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

"Why  does  she  sob  so,  Mr.  Halifax?  Papa  will  be  better 
to-morrow,  I  am  sure." 

"I  hope  so,"  he  answered,  dwelling  on  the  word;  "we  should 
always  hope  to  the  very  last." 

"The  last!"  with  a  quick,  startled  glance. 

"And  then  we  can  only  trust." 

Something  more  than  the  mere  words  struck  her.  She  ex- 
amined him  closely  for  a  minute. 

"You  mean — yes — I  understand  what  you  mean.  But  you 

are  mistaken.  The  doctor  would  have  told  me — if — if " 

she  shivered,  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished. 

"Dr.  Brown  was  afraid — we  were  all  afraid,"  broke  in  Mrs. 
Tod,  sobbing.  "Only  Mr.  Halifax,  he  said " 

Miss  March  turned  abruptly  to  John.     That  woful  gaze  of 


144  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

hers  could  be  answered  by  no  words.  I  believe  that  he  took 
her  hand,  but  I  cannot  tell.  One  thing  I  can  tell,  for  she  said 
it  to  me  herself  afterward,  that  he  seemed  to  look  down  upon 
her  like  a  strong,  pitiful,  comforting  angel;  a  messenger  sent 
by  God. 

Then  she  broke  away  and  flew  upstairs.  John  came  in 
again  to  me  and  sat  down.  He  did  not  speak  for  many  min- 
utes. 

After  an  interval — I  know  not  how  long — we  heard  Mrs. 
Tod  calling  loudly  for  "Mr.  Halifax."  We  both  ran  through 
the  empty  kitchen  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  that  led  to  Mr. 
March's  room. 

Mr.  March's  room!  Alas,  he  owned  nothing  now  on  this 
fleeting,  perishable  earth  of  ours.  He  had  gone  from  it;  the 
spirit  stealing  quietly  away  in  sleep.  He  belonged  now  to  the 
world  everlasting. 

Peace  be  to  him!  whatever  his  life  had  been,  he  was  her 
father. 

Mrs.  Tod  sat  half-way  down  the  staircase,  holding  Ursula 
March  across  her  knees.  The  poor  creature  was  insensible,  or 
nearly  so.  She,  we  learned,  had  been  composed  under  the 
terrible  discovery  made  when  she  returned  to  his  room;  and 
when  all  restorative  means  failed,  the  fact  of  death  became 
certain,  she  had  herself  closed  her  father's  eyes,  and  kissed 
him,  then  tried  to  walk  from  the  room,  but  at  the  third  step 
she  dropped  quietly  down. 

There  she  lay;  physical  weakness  conquering  the  strong 
heart:  she  lay,  overcome  at  last.  There  was  no  more  to  bear. 
Had  there  been,  I  think  she  would  have  been  able  to  have 
borne  it  still. 

John  took  her  in  his  arms;  I  know  not  if  he  took  her,  or 
Mrs.  Tod  gave  her  to  him — but  there  she  was.  He  carried 
her  across  the  kitchen  into  our  own  little  parlor,  and  laid  her 
down  on  my  sofa. 

"Shut  the  door,  Phineas.  Mrs.  Tod,  keep  everybody  out. 
She  is  waking  now." 

She  did,  indeed,  open  her  eyes,  with  a  long  sigh,  but 
closed  them  again.  Then,  with  an  effort,  she  sat  upright, 
and  looked  at  us  all  around. 

"Oh,  my  dear!  my  dear!"  moaned  Mrs.  Tod,  clasping  her, 
and  sobbing  over  her  like  a  child.  "Cry — do  cry?" 

"I  can't,"  she  said,  and  lay  down  again. 

We  stood  awed,  watching  that  poor,  pale  face,  on  every  line 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  145 

of  which  was  written  stunned,  motionless.,  impassive  grief. 
For  John — two  minutes  of  such  a  gaze  as  his  might,  in  a  man's 
heart  do  the  work  of  years. 

"She  must  be  roused,"  he  said  at  last.  "She  must  cry. 
Mrs.  Tod,  take  her  upstairs.  Let  her  look  at  her  father." 

The  word  affected  what  he  desired;  what  almost  her  life 
demanded.  She  clung  round  Mrs.  Tod's  neck  in  torrents  of 
weeping. 

"Now,  Phineas,  let  us  go  away." 

And  he  went,  walking  almost  like  one  blindfolded,  straight 
out  of  the  house,  I  following  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"I  am  quite  certain,  Mrs.  Tod,  that  it  would  be  much  bet- 
ter for  her;  and,  if  she  consents,  it  shall  be  so,"  said  John, 
decisively. 

We  three  were  consulting,  the  morning  after  the  death,  on 
a  plan  which  he  and  I  had  already  settled  between  ourselves, 
namely,  that  we  should  leave  our  portion  of  the  cottage  en- 
tirely at  Miss  March's  disposal,  while  we  inhabited  hers,  save 
that  locked  and  silent  chamber  wherein  there  was  no  com- 
plaining, no  suffering  now. 

Either  John's  decision,  or  Mrs.  Tod's  reasoning,  was  suc- 
cessful; we  received  a  message  to  the  effect  that  Miss  March 
would  not  refuse  our  "kindness."  So  we  vacated;  and  all  that 
long  Sunday  we  sat  in  the  parlor  lately  our  neighbor's,  heard 
the  rain  come  down,  and  the  church  bells  ring;  the  wind  blow- 
ing autumn  gales,  and  shaking  all  the  windows,  even  that  of 
the  room  overhead.  It  sounded  awful  there.  We  were  very 
glad  the  poor  young  orphan  was  away. 

On  the  Monday  morning  we  heard  going  upstairs  the  heavy 
footsteps  that  everyone  at  some  time  or  other  has  shuddered 
at;  then  the  hammering.  Mrs.  Tod  came  in  and  told  us  that 
no  one,  not  even  his  daughter,  could  be  allowed  to  look  at 
what  had  been  "poor  Mr.  March"  any  more.  All  with  him 
was  ended. 

"The  funeral  is  to  be  soon.  I  wonder  what  she  will  do  then, 
poor  thing?" 

John  made  no  answer. 

"Is  she  left  well  provided  for,  do  you  think?" 
10 


146  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"It  is  impossible  to  say." 

His  answers  were  terse  and  brief  enough,  but  I  could  not 
help  talking  about  the  poor  young  creature,  and  wondering  if 
she  had  any  relative  or  friend  to  come  to  her  in  this  sad  time. 

"She  said — do  you  remember,  when  she  was  crying — that 
she  had  not  a  friend  in  the  wide  world?" 

And  this  fact,  which  he  expressed  with  a  sort  of  triumph, 
seemed  to  afford  the  greatest  possible  comfort  to  John. 

But  all  our  speculations  were  set  at  rest  by  a  request  brought 
this  moment  by  Mrs.  Tod,  that  Mr.  Halifax  would  go  with  her 
to  speak  to  Miss  March. 

"I!  only  I?"  said  John,  starting. 

"Only  you,  sir.  She  wants  somebody  to  speak  to  about  the 
funeral — and  I  said,  'There  be  Mr.  Halifax,  Miss  March,  the 
kindest  gentleman;'  and  she  said,  'if  it  wouldn't  trouble  him  to 
come ' " 

"Tell  her  I'm  coming." 

When,  after  some  time,  he  returned,  he  was  very  serious. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Phineas,  and  you  shall  hear;  I  feel  con- 
fused, rather.  It  is  so  strange,  but  trusting  me  thus.  I  wish 
I  could  help  her  more." 

Then  he  told  me  all  that  had  passed — how  he  and  Mrs.  Tod 
had  conjointly  arranged  the  hasty  funeral — how  brave  and 
composed  she  had  been — that  poor  child,  all  alone! 

"Has  she,  indeed,  no  one  to  help  her?" 

"No  one.  She  might  send  for  Mr.  Brithwood,  but  he  was 
not  friendly  with  her  father;  she  said,  she  had  rather  ask  this 
'kindness'  of  me,  because  her  father  had  liked  me,  and  thought 
I  resembled  their  Walter,  who  died." 

"Poor  Mr.  March!  perhaps  he  is  with  Walter  now.  But, 
John,  can  you  do  all  that  is  necessary  for  her?  You  are  very 
young." 

"She  does  not  seem  to  feel  that.  She  treats  me  as  if  I  were 
a  man  of  forty.  Do  I  look  so  old  and  grave,  Phineas?" 

"Sometimes.     And  about  the  funeral?" 

"It  will  be  very  simple.  She  is  determined  to  go  herself. 
She  wishes  to  have  no  one  besides  Mrs.  Tod,  you,  and  me." 

"Where  is  he  to  be  buried?" 

"In  the  little  church-yard  close  by,  which  you  and  I  have 
looked  at  many  a  time.  Ah,  Phineas,  we  did  not  think  how 
soon  we  should  be  laying  our  dead  there." 

"Not  our  dead,  thank  God!" 

But  the  next  minute  I  understood.     "Our  dead" — the  in- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  147 

voluntary  admission  of  that  sole  feeling,  which  makes  one, 
erewhile  a  stranger,  say  to,  or  think  of  another — "All  thine 
are  mine,  and  mine  are  thine,  henceforward  and  forever." 

I  watched  John  as  he  stood  by  the  fire;  his  thoughtful  brow 
and  firm-set  lips  contradicting  the  youthfulness  of  his  looks. 
Few  as  were  his  years,  he  had  learned  much  in  them.  He  was 
at  heart  a  man,  ready  and  able  to  design  and  carry  out  a  man's 
work  in  the  world.  And^in  his  whole  aspect  was  such  grave 
purity,  such  honest  truth,  that  no  wonder,  young  as  they  both 
were,  and  little  as  she  knew  of  him,  this  poor  orphan  should 
not  have  feared  to  trust  him  entirely.  And  there  is  nothing 
that  binds  heart  to  heart,  of  lovers  or  friends,  so  quickly  and 
so  safely  as  to  trust  and  be  trusted  in  time  of  trouble. 

"Did  she  tell  you  any  more,  John? — anything  of  her  cir- 
cumstances?" 

"No.  But  from  something  Mrs.  Tod  let  fall  I  fear" — and 
he  vainly  tried  to  disguise  his  extreme  satisfaction — "that  she 
will  be  left  with  little  or  nothing." 

"Poor  Miss  March!" 

"Why  call  her  poor?  She  is  not  a  woman  to  be  pitied,  but 
to  be  honored.  You  would  have  thought  so  had  you  seen  her 
this  morning.  So  gentle,  so  wise,  so  brave.  Phineas" — and 
I  could  see  his  lips  tremble — "that  was  the  kind  of  woman 
Solomon  meant  when  he  said,  'Her  price  is  above  rubies.'  " 

"I  think  so,  too.  I  doubt  not  that  when  she  marries,  Ur- 
sula March  will  be  a  'crown  to  her  husband.' }: 

My  words,  or  the  half -sigh  that  accompanied  them — I  could 
not  help  it — seemed  to  startle  John,  but  he  made  no  remark. 
Nor  did  we  recur  to  the  subject  again  that  day. 

Two  days  after  our  little  company  followed  the  coffin  out  of 
the  woodbine  porch,  where  we  had  last  said  good-bye  to  poor 
Mr.  March — across  the  few  yards  of  common  to  the  church- 
yard, scarcely  larger  than  a  cottage  garden,  where,  at  long 
intervals,  the  few  Enderley  dead  were  laid. 

A  small  procession — the  daughter  first,  supported  by  good 
Mrs.  Tod,  then  John  Halifax  and  I.  So  we  buried  him — the 
stranger,  who  at  this  time  and  henceforth  seemed  even,  as 
John  had  expressed  it,  "our  dead,"  our  own. 

We  followed  the  orphan  home.  She  had  walked  firmly,  and 
stood  by  the  grave-side  motionless,  her  hood  drawn  over  her 
face.  But  when  we  came  back  to  Eose  Cottage  door,  and  she 
gave  a  quick  startled  glance  up  at  the  familiar  window,  we 


148  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

saw  Mrs.  Tod  take  her,  unresisting,  into  her  motherly  arms — 
then  we  knew  how  it  would  be. 

"Come  away,"  said  John,  in  a  smothered  voice,  and  we  came 
away. 

All  that  day  we  sat  in  our  parlor — Mr.  March's  parlor  that 
had  been — where,  through  the  no  longer  darkened  casement, 
the  unwonted  sun  poured  in;  we  tried  to  settle  to  our  ordinary 
ways,  and  feel  as  if  this  were  like  all  other  days — our  old  sun- 
shiny days  at  Enderley.  But  it  would  not  do.  Some  imper- 
ceptible but  great  change  had  taken  place.  It  seemed  a  year 
since  that  Saturday  afternoon,  when  we  were  drinking  tea  so 
merrily  under  the  apple-tree  in  the  field. 

We  heard  no  more  from  Miss  March  that  day.  The  next, 
we  received  a  message  of  thanks  for  our  "kindness."  She  had 
given  way  at  last,  Mrs.  Tod  said,  and  kept  her  chamber,  not 
seriously  ill,  but  in  spirit  thoroughly  broken  down.  For  three 
days  more,  when  I  went  to  meet  John  returning  from  Norton 
Bury,  I  could  see  that  his  first  glance,  as  he  rode  up  between 
the  chestnut  trees,  was  to  the  window  of  the  room  that  had 
been  mine.  I  always  told  him,  without  his  asking,  whatever 
Mrs.  Tod  had  told  me  about  her  state;  he  used  to  listen,  gen- 
erally in  silence,  and  then  speak  of  something  else.  He  hard- 
ly ever  mentioned  Miss  March's  name. 

On  the  fourth  morning,  I  happened  to  ask  him  if  he  had 
told  my  father  what  had  occurred  here? 

"No." 

I  looked  surprised. 

"Did  you  wish  me  to  tell  him?  I  will,  if  you  like,  Phin- 
eas." 

"Oh,  no.     He  takes  little  interest  in  strangers." 

Soon  after,  as  he  lingered  about  the  parlor,  John  said: 

"Probably  I  may  be  late  to-night.  After  business  hours,  I 
want  to  have  a  little  talk  with  your  father." 

He  stood  irresolutely  by  the  fire.  I  knew  by  his  counten- 
ance that  there  was  something  on  his  mind. 

"David!" 

"Ay,  lad." 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  first  what  you  want  to  say  to  my 
father?"  ' 

"I  can't  stay  now.  To-night,  perhaps.  But,  pshaw!  what 
is  there  to  be  told?  'Nothing.' '; 

"Anything  that  concerns  you  can  never  be  to  me  quite 
'nothing.' " 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  149 

"I  know  that,"  he  said,  affectionately,  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 

When  he  came  in,  he  looked  much  more  cheerful — stood 
switching  his  riding-whip  after  the  old  habit,  and  called  upon 
me  to  admire  his  favorite  brown  mare. 

"I  do;  and  her  master  likewise.  John,  when  you're  on 
horseback,  you  look  like  a  young  knight  of  the  Middle  Ages. 
Maybe  some  of  the  old  Norman  blood  was  in  'Guy  Halifax, 
gentleman/ '' 

It  was  a  dangerous  allusion.  He  changed  color  so  rapidly 
and  violently  that  I  thought  I  had  angered  him. 

"No — that  would  not  matter — cannot — cannot — never 
shall.  I  am  what  God  made  me,  and  what,  with  His  blessing, 
I  will  make  myself." 

He  said  no  more,  and  very  soon  afterward  he  rode  away. 
But  not  before,  as  every  day,  I  had  noticed  that  wistful,  wan- 
dering glance  up  at  the  darkened  window  of  the  room,  where 
sad  and  alone,  save  for  kindly  Mrs.  Tod,  the  young  orphan 
lay. 

In  the  evening,  just  before  bed-time,  he  said  to  me,  with 
a  rather  sad  smile,  "Phineas,  you  wanted  to  know  what  it  was 
that  I  wished  to  speak  about  to  your  father?" 

"Ay,  do  tell  me." 

"It  is  hardly  worth  telling.  Only  to  ask  him  how  he  set  up 
in  business  for  himself.  He  was,  I  believe,  little  older  than  I 
am  now." 

"Just  twenty-one." 

"And  I  shall  be  twenty-one  next  June." 

"Are  you  thinking  of  setting  up  for  yourself?" 

"A  likely  matter!"  and  he  laughed  rather  bitterly,  I  thought 
— "when  every  trade  requires  some  capital,  and  the  only  trade 
I  thoroughly  understand,  a  very  large  one.  No,  no,  Phineas; 
you'll  not  see  me  setting  up  a  rival  tan-yard  next  year.  My 
capital  is  nil." 

"Except  youth,  health,  courage,  honor,  honesty,  and  a  few 
other  such  trifles." 

"None  of  which  I  can  coin  into  money,  however.  And  your 
father  has  expressly  told  me,  that  without  money  a  tanner 
can  do  nothing." 

"Unless,  as  was  his  own  case,  he  was  taken  into  some  partner- 
ship, where  his  services  were  so  valuable  as  to  be  received  in- 
stead of  capital.  True,  my  father  earned  little  at  first,  scarce- 


150  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ly  more  than  you  earn  now;  but  he  managed  to  live  respecta- 
bly, and  in  course  of  time  to  marry." 

I  avoided  looking  at  John  as  I  said  the  last  word.  He  made 
no  answer,  but  in  a  little  time  he  came  and  leaned  over  my 
chair. 

"Phineas,  you  are  a  wise  counsellor — 'a  brother  born  for 
adversity.'  I  have  been  vexing  myself  a  good  deal  about  my 
future,  but  now  I  will  take  heart.  Perhaps,  some  day,  neither 
you  nor  any  one  else  will  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"No  one  could,  even  now,  seeing  you  as  you  really  are." 

"As  John  Halifax,  not  as  the  tanner's  'prentice-boy?  Oh! 
lad,  there  the  goad  sticks.  Here,  I  forget  everything  unpleas- 
ant; I  am  my  own  free  natural  self;  but  the  minute  I  get  back 
to  Norton  Bury — however,  it  is  a  wrong,  a  wicked  feeling,  and 
must  be  kept  down.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else." 

"Of  Miss  March?     She  has  been  greatly  better  all  day." 

"She?  No,  not  her  to-night!"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "Pah! 
I  could  almost  fancy  the  odor  of  these  hides  on  my  hands  still. 
Give  me  a  candle." 

He  went  upstairs,  and  only  came  down  a  few  minutes  before 
bed-time. 

Next  morning  was  Sunday.  After  the  bells  had  done  ring- 
ing, we  saw  a  black-veiled  figure  pass  our  window.  Poor  girl! 
— going  to  church  alone.  We  followed — taking  care  that  she 
should  not  see  us,  either  during  service,  or  afterward.  We 
did  not  see  anything  more  of  her  that  day. 

On  Monday  a  message  came,  saying  that  Miss  March  would 
be  glad  to  speak  with  us  both.  Of  course,  we  went. 

She  was  sitting  quite  alone,  in  our  old  parlor,  very  grave  and 
pale,  but  perfectly  composed.  A  little  more  womanly-looking 
in  the  dignity  of  her  great  grief,  which,  girl  as  she  was,  and 
young  men  as  we  were,  seemed  to  be  to  her  a  shield  transcend- 
ing all  wordly  "proprieties." 

As  she  rose,  and  we  shook  hands,  in  a  silence  only  broken 
by  the  rustle  of  her  black  dress,  not  one  of  us  thought — surely 
the  most  evil-minded  gossip  could  not  have  dared  to  think — 
not  the  thing.  She  seemed  to  have  fought  through  the  worst 
of  the  trouble,  and  to  have  put  it  back  into  those  deep,  quiet 
chambers  where  all  griefs  go;  never  forgotten,  never  removed, 
but  sealed  up  in  silence,  as  it  should  be.  Perhaps,  too — for 
let  us  not  exact  more  from  Nature  than  Nature  grants — the 
wide  difference  in  character,  temperament,  and  sympathies 
between  Miss  March  and  her  father,  unconsciously  made  his 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  151 

loss  less  a  heart-loss,  total  and  irremediable,  than  one  of  mere 
habit  and  instinctive  feeling,  which,  the  first  shock  over,  would 
insensibly  heal.  Besides,  she  was  young — young  in  life,  in 
hope,  in  body  and  soul;  and  youth,  though  it  grieves  passion- 
ately, cannot  forever  grieve. 

I  saw,  and  rejoiced  to  see,  that  Miss  March  was  in  some  de- 
gree herself  again;  at  least  so  much  of  her  old  self  as  was  right, 
natural,  and  good  for  her  to  be. 

She  and  John  conversed  a  good  deal.  Her  manner  to  him 
was  easy  and  natural,  as  to  a  friend  who  deserved  and  pos- 
sessed her  warm  gratitude;  his  was  most  constrained.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  this  wore  away;  there  was  something  in  her 
which,  piercing  all  disguises,  went  at  once  to  the  heart  of 
things.  She  seemed  to  hold  in  her  hand  the  touchstone  of 
truth. 

He  asked — no  I  believe  I  asked  her,  how  long  she  intended 
staying  at  Enderley? 

"I  can  hardly  tell.  Once  I  understood  that  my  cousin, 
Eichard  Brithwood,  was  left  my  guardian.  This  my  fa — 
this  was  to  have  been  altered,  I  believe.  I  wish  it  had  been. 
You  know  Norton  Bury,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"I  live  there." 

"Indeed!" — with  some  surprise.  "Then  you  are  probably 
acquainted  with  my  cousin  and  his  wife?" 

"No;  but  I  have  seen  them." 

John  gave  these  answers  without  lifting  his  eyes. 

"Will  you  tell  me  candidly,  for  I  know  nothing  of  her,  and 
it  is  rather  important  that  I  should  learn — what  sort  of  per- 
son is  Lady  Caroline?" 

This  frank  question,-  put  directly,  and  guarded  by  the  bat- 
tery of  those  innocent  girlish  eyes,  was  a  very  hard  question 
to  be  answered;  for  Norton  Bury  had  said  many  ill-natured 
things  of  our  young  'squire's  wife,  whom  he  married  at  Naples, 
from  the  house  of  the  well-known  Lady  Hamilton. 

"She  was,  you  are  aware,  Lady  Caroline  Eavenel,  the  Earl 
of  Luxmore's  daughter." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  that  does  not  signify.  I  know  nothing  of 
Lord  Luxmore.  I  want  to  know  what  she  is  herself!" 

John  hesitated,  then  answered,  as  he  could  with  truth, 
"She  is  said  to  be  very  charitable  to  the  poor,  pleasant  and 
kind-hearted.  But  if  I  may  venture  to  hint  as  much,  not  ex- 
actly the  friend  whom  I  think  Miss  March  would  choose,  or  to 


152  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

whom  she  would  like  to  be  indebted  for  anything  but  cour- 
tesy." 

"That  was  not  my  meaning.  I  need  not  be  indebted  to  any 
one.  Only,  if  she  were  a  good  woman,  Lady  Caroline  would 
have  been  a  great  comfort  and  useful  adviser  to  one  who  is 
scarcely  eighteen,  and,  I  believe,  an  heiress." 

"An  heiress!"  The  color  flashed  in  a  torrent  over  John's 
whole  face,  then  left  him  pale.  "I — pardon  me — I  thought 
it  was  otherwise.  Allow  me  to — to  express  my  pleasure " 

"It  does  not  add  to  mine,"  said  she,  half  sighing.  "Jane 
Cardigan  always  told  me  riches  brought  many  cares.  Poor 
Jane!  I  wish  I  could  go  back  to  her — but  that  is  impossible!" 

A  silence  here  intervened,  which  it  was  necessary  some  one 
should  break. 

"So  much  good  can  be  done  with  a  large  fortune,"  I  said. 

"Yes.  I  know  not  if  mine  is  very  large;  indeed  I  never 
understood  money  matters,  but  have  merely  believed  what  I 
was  told.  However,  be  my  fortune  much  or  little,  I  will  try 
to  use  it  well." 

"I  am  sure  you  will." 

John  said  nothing;  but  his  eyes,  sad  indeed,  yet  lit  with  a 
proud  tenderness,  rested  upon  her  as  she  spoke.  Soon  after, 
he  rose  up  to  take  leave. 

"Do  not  go  yet.  I  want  to  ask  about  Norton  Bury.  I  had 
no  idea  you  lived  there.  And  Mr.  Fletcher,  too  ?" 

I  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

"In  what  part  of  the  town?" 

"On  the  Coltham  Eoad,  near  the  Abbey." 

"Ah,  those  Abbey  chimes!  how  I  used  to  listen  to  them 
night  after  night,  when  the  pain  kept  me  awake!" 

"What  pain?"  asked  John  suddenly,  alive  to  any  suffering 
of  hers. 

Miss  March  smiled  almost  like  her  old  smile.  "Oh!  I  had 
nearly  forgotten  it,  though  it  was  very  bad  at  the  time:  only 
that  I  cut  my  wrist  rather  dangerously  with  a  bread-knife,  in 
a  struggle  with  my  nurse." 

"When  was  that?"  eagerly  inquired  John. 

For  me,  I  said  nothing.  Already  I  guessed  all.  Alas!  the 
tide  of  fate  was  running  strong  against  my  poor  David.  What 
could  I  do  but  stand  aside  and  watch? 

"When 'was  it?  Let  me  see — five,  six  years  ago.  But,  in- 
deed, 'tis  nothing." 

"Not  exactly  'nothing.'    Do  tell  me!" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  153 

And  John  stood,  listening  for  her  words,  counting  them 
even,  as  one  would  count,  drop  by  drop,  a  phial  of  joy  which 
is  nearly  empty,  yet  Time's  remorseless  hand  still  kept  on, 
pouring,  pouring. 

"Well,  if  you  must  know  it,  it  was  one  of  my  naughtinesses 
— I  was  very  naughty  as  a  child.  They  would  not  let  me  have 
a  piece  of  bread  that  I  wanted  to  give  away  to  a  poor  lad." 

"Who  stood  opposite,  under  an  alley,  in  the  rain,  was  it 
not?" 

"How  could  you  know?  But  he  looked  so  hungry;  I  was 
so  sorry  for  him." 

"Were  you?" — in  a  tone  almost  inaudible. 

"I  have  often  thought  of  him  since,  when  I  chanced  to  look 
at  this  mark." 

"Let  me  look  at  it — may  I?" 

Taking  her  hand,  he  softly  put  back  the  sleeve,  discovering, 
just  above  the  wrist,  a  deep,  discolored  seam.  He  gazed  at  it, 
his  features  all  quivering;  then  without  a  word  either  of  adieu 
or  apology,  he  quitted  the  room. 


CHAPTEB  XV. 

I  was  left  with  Miss  March  alone.  She  sat  looking  at  the 
door  where  John  had  disappeared  in  extreme  surprise,  not 
unmingled  with  a  certain  embarrassment. 

"What  does  he  mean,  Mr.  Fletcher?  Can  I  have  offended 
him  in  any  way?" 

"Indeed,  no." 

"Why  did  he  go  away?" 

But  that  question,  simple  as  it  was  in  itself,  and  most  sim- 
ply put,  involved  so  much  that  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  answer 
it;  while,  at  the  same  time,  I  had  no  possible  right  to  use  any 
of  those  disguises  or  prevarications  which  are  foolish  and  per- 
ilous and  very  frequently  wrong.  Nor,  even  had  I  desired, 
was  Miss  March  the  woman  to  which  one  dared  offer  the  like: 
therefore  I  said  to  her  plainly: 

"I  know  the  reason.  I  would  tell  you,  but  I  think  John 
would  prefer  telling  you  himself." 

"As  he  pleases,"  returned  Miss  March,  a  slight  reserve  tem- 
pering her  frank  manner;  but  it  soon  vanished,  and  she  began 
talking  to  me  in  her  usual  friendly  way,  asking  me  many  ques- 


154  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

tions  about  the  Brithwoods  and  about  Norton  Bury.  I  an- 
swered them  freely,  my  only  reservation  being  that  I  took  care 
not  to  give  any  information  concerning  ourselves.  Soon  af- 
terward, as  John  did  not  return,  I  took  leave  of  her  and  went 
to  our  parlor. 

He  was  not  there.  He  had  left  word  with  little  Jack,  who 
had  met  him  on  the  common,  that  he  was  gone  a  long  walk, 
and  should  not  return  till  dinner-time.  Dinner-time  came, 
but  I  had  to  dine  alone.  It  was  the  first  time  I  ever  knew  him 
to  break  even  such  a  trivial  promise.  My  heart  misgave  me — 
I  spent  a  miserable  day.  I  was  afraid  to  go  in  search  of  him, 
lest  he  should  return  to  a  dreary,  empty  parlor.  Better,  when 
he  did  come  in,  that  he  should  find  a  cheerful  hearth  and — 
me. 

Me,  his  friend  and  brother,  who  had  loved  him  these  six 
years  better  than  anything  else  in  the  whole  world.  Yet  what 
could  I  do  now?  Fate  had  taken  the  scepter  out  of  my  hands 
—I  was  utterly  powerless;  I  could  neither  give  him  comfort 
nor  save  him  pain  any  more. 

What  I  felt  then  in  those  long,  still  hours,  many  a  one  has 
felt  likewise;  many  a  parent  over  a  child,  many  a  sister  over 
a  brother,  many  a  friend  over  a  friend — a  feeling  natural  and 
universal.  Let  those  who  suffer  take  it  patiently,  as  the  com- 
mon lot;  let  those  who  win  hold  the  former  ties  in  tenderness 
and  reverence,  nor  dare  to  flaunt  the  new  bond  cruelly  in  face 
of  the  old. 

Having  said  this,  which,  being  the  truth,  it  struck  me  as 
right  to  say,  I  will  no  more  allude  to  the  subject. 

In  the  afternoon  there  occurred  an  incident.  A  coach-and- 
four,  resplendent  in  liveries,  stopped  at  the  door:  I  knew  it 
well,  and  so  did  all  Norton  Bury.  It  was  empty;  but  Lady 
Caroline's  own  maid — so  I  heard  afterward — sat  in  the  rum- 
ble, and  Lady  Caroline's  own  black-eyed  Neapolitan  page 
leaped  down,  bearing  a  large  letter,  which  I  concluded  was  for 
Miss  March.  I  was  glad  that  John  was  not  at  home;  glad  that 
the  coach,  with  all  its  fine  paraphernalia,  was  away,  empty  as 
it  had  arrived,  before  John  came  up. 

He  did  not  come  until  it  was  nearly  dusk.  I  was  at  the 
window,  looking  at  my  four  poplar-trees,  as  they  pointed  sky- 
ward like  long  fingers  stretching  up  out  of  the  gloom,  when  T 
saw  him  crossing  the  common.  At  first  I  was  going  to  meet 
him  at  the  gate,  but  on  second  thoughts  I  remained  within  and 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  155 

only  stirred  up  the  fire,  which  could  be  seen  shining  ever  so 
far. 

"What  a  bright  blaze!  Nay,  you  have  not  waited  dinner, 
I  hope?  Tea — yes,  that's  far  better;  I  have  had  such  a  long 
walk,  and  am  so  tired." 

The  words  were  cheerful,  so  was  the  tone.  Too  cheerful — 
oh,  by  far!  The  sort  of  cheerfulness  that  strikes  to  a  friend's 
heart,  like  the  piping  of  soldiers  as  they  go  away  back  from  a 
newly-filled  grave. 

"Where  have  you  been,  John?" 

"All  over  Nunnely  Hill.  I  must  take  you  there — such  ex- 
pansive views!  As  Mrs.  Tod  informed  me,  quoting  some  local 
ballad,  which  she  said  was  written  by  an  uncle  of  hers: 

'There  you  may  spy 
Twenty-three  churches  with  the  glass  and  the  eye.' 

Remarkable  fact,  isn't  it?" 

Thus  he  kept  on  talking  all  tea-time,  incessantly,  rapidly 
talking.  It  was  enough  to  make  one  weep. 

After  tea,  I  insisted  on  his  taking  my  arm-chair,  saying, 
that  after  such  a  walk,  in  that  raw  day,  he  must  be  very  cold. 

"Not  the  least — quite  the  contrary — feel  my  hand."  It 
was  burning.  "But  I  am  tired — thoroughly  tired." 

He  leaned  back  and  shut  his  eyes.  Oh,  the  utter  weariness 
of  body  and  soul  that  was  written  on  his  face! 

"Why  did  you  go  out  alone?  John,  you  know  that  you 
have  always  me." 

He  looked  up,  smiling.  But  the  momentary  brightness 
passed.  Alas!  I  was  not  enough  to  make  him  happy  now. 

We  sat  silent.  I  knew  he  would  speak  to  me  in  time;  but 
the  gates  of  his  heart  were  close  locked.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
dared  not  open  them,  lest  the  flood  should  burst  forth  and 
overwhelm  us. 

At  nine  o'clock,  Mrs.  Tod  came  in  with  supper.  She  had 
always  something  or  other  to  say,  especially  since  the  late 
events  had  drawn  the  whole  household  of  Eose  Cottage  so 
closely  together;  now  she  was  brimful  of  news. 

She  had  been  all  that  evening  packing  up  for  poor,  dear 
Miss  March;  though  why  she  should  call  her  "poor,"  truly, 
she  didn't  know.  Who  would  have  thought  Mr.  March  had 
such  grand  relations!  Had  we  seen  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood's  coach  come  that  day?  Such  a  beautiful  coach  it  was! 


156  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

sent  on  purpose  for  Miss  March,  only  she  wouldn't  go.  "But 
now  she  has  made  up  her  mind,  poor  dear.  She  is  leaving  to- 
morrow." 

When  John  heard  this,  he  was  helping  Mrs.  Tod,  as  usual, 
to  fasten  the  heavy  shutters.  He  stood,  with  his  hand  on  the- 
bolt,  motionless,  till  the  good  woman  was  gone.  Then  IK; 
staggered  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  leaned  on  it  with  both  his 
elbows,  his  hands  covering  his  face. 

But  there  was  no  disguise  now,  no  attempt  to  make  it.  A 
young  man's  first  love — not  first  fancy,  but  first  love — in  all 
its  passion,  desperation,  and  pain,  had  come  to  him,  as  it  comes 
to  all.  I  saw  him  writhing  under  it — saw,  and  could  not  help 
him.  The  next  few  silent  minutes  were  very  bitter  to  us  both. 

Then  I  said,  gently,  "David!" 

"Well?" 

"I  thought  things  were  so." 

"Yes." 

"Suppose  you  were  to  talk  to  me  a  little,  it  might  do  you 
good." 

"Another  time.  Let  me  go  out — out  into  the  air — I'm 
choking." 

Snatching  up  his  hat,  he  rushed  from  me.  I  did  not  dare 
to  follow. 

After  waiting  some  time,  and  listening  till  all  was  quiet  in 
the  house,  I  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer,  and  went  out. 

I  thought  I  should  find  him  on  the  Flat,  probably  in  his 
favorite  walk,  his  "terrace,"  as  he  called  it,  where  he  had  first 
seen,  and  must  have  seen  many  a  day  after,  that  girlish  figure 
tripping  lightly  along  through  the  morning  sunshine  and 
morning  dew.  I  had  a  sort  of  instinct  that  he  would  be  there 
now;  so  I  climbed  up  the  shortest  way,  often  losing  my  foot- 
ing; for  it  was  a  pitch-dark  night,  and  the  common  looked  as 
wide  and  black  and  still  as  a  midnight  sea. 

John  was  not  there;  indeed,  if  he  had  been,  I  could  scarce- 
ly have  seen  him;  I  could  see  nothing  but  void  expanse  of  the 
Flat,  or,  looking  down,  the  broad  river  of  mist  that  rolled 
through  the  valley,  on  the  other  side  of  which  twinkled  a  few 
cottage  lights,  like  unearthly  beacons  from  the  farthest  shore 
of  an  impassable  flood. 

Suddenly  I  remembered  hearing  Mrs.  Tod  say  that,  on  ac- 
count of  its  pits  and  quarries,  the  common  was  extremely 
dangerous  after  dark,  except  to  those  who  knew  it  well.  In 
a  horrible  dread  I  called  out  John's  name — but  no  one  an- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  157 

swered.  I  went  on  blindly,  desperately,  shouting  as  I  went. 
At  length,  in  one  of  the  Eoman  fosses,  I  stumbled  and  fell. 
Some  one  came,  darting  with  great  leaps  through  the  mist, 
and  lifted  me  up. 

"Oh!  David— David!" 

"Phineas,  is  that  you?  You  have  come  out  this  bitter  night 
— why  did  you?" 

His  tenderness  over  me,  even  then,  made  me  break  down. 
I  forgot  my  manhood,  or  else  it  slipped  from  me  unawares. 
In  the  old  Bible  language,  "I  fell  on  his  neck  and  wept." 

Afterward  I  was  not  sorry  for  this,  because  I  think  my 
weakness  gave  him  strength.  I  think,  amid  the  whirl  of  pas- 
sion that  racked  him,  it  was  good  for  him  to  feel  that  the  one 
crowning  cup  of  life  is  not  inevitably  life's  sole  sustenance; 
that  it  was  something  to  have  a  friend  and  brother  who  loved 
him  with  a  love — like  Jonathan's  "passing  the  love  of  wo- 
men." 

"I  have  been  very  wrong,"  he  kept  repeating,  in  a  broken 
voice;  "but  I  was  not  myself.  I  am  better  now.  Come — let 
us  go  home." 

He  put  his  arm  round  me  to  keep  me  warm.  He  even  sat 
down  by  the  fire  to  talk  with  me.  Whatever  struggle  there 
had  been,  I  saw  it  was  over;  he  looked  his  own  self,  only  so 
very,  very  pale,  and  spoke  in  his  natural  voice;  ay,  even  when 
mentioning  her,  which  he  was  the  first  to  do." 

"She  goes  to-morrow,  you  are  sure,  Phineas?" 

"I  believe  so.     Shall  you  see  her  again?" 

"If  she  desires  it." 

"Shall  you  say  anything  to  her?" 

"Nothing.  If  for  a  little  while — not  knowing  or  not  think- 
ing of  all  the  truth — I  felt  I  had  strength  to  remove  all  im- 
pediments, I  now  see  that  even  to  dream  of  such  things  makes 
me  a  fool,  or  possibly  worse — a  knave.  I  will  be  neither;  I 
will  be  a  man." 

I  replied  not;  how  could  one  answer  such  words? — calmly 
uttered,  though  each  syllable  must  have  been  torn  out  like  a 
piece  of  his  heart. 

"Did  she  say  anything  to  you?  Did  she  ask  why  I  left  her 
so  abruptly  this  morning?" 

"She  did;  I  said  you  would  probably  tell  her  the  reason 
yourself." 

f'l  will.     She  must  no  longer  be  kept  in  ignorance  about 


168  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

me  or  my  position.  I  shall  tell  her  the  whole  truth — save  one 
thing.  She  need  never  know  that." 

I  guessed  by  his  broken  voice  what  the  "one  thing"  was; 
which  he  counted  as  nothing,  but  which,  I  think,  any  true 
woman  would  have  counted  worth  everything — the  priceless 
gift  of  a  good  man's  love.  Love  that  in  such  a  nature  as  his, 
if  once  conceived,  would  last  a  lifetime.  And  she  was  not  to 
know  it!  I  felt  sorry,  ay,  very  sorry,  for  Ursula  March. 

"Do  you  not  think  I  am  right,  Phineas?" 

"Perhaps.     I  cannot  say.    You  are  the  best  judge." 

"It  is  right,"  said  he,  firmly.  "There  can  be  no  possible 
hope  for  me;  nothing  remains  but  silence." 

I  did  not  quite  agree  with  him.  I  could  not  see  that  to  any 
young  man,  only  twenty  years  old,  with  the  world  all  before 
him,  any  love  could  be  absolutely  hopeless;  especially  to  a 
young  man  like  John  Halifax.  But  as  things  now  stood,  I 
deemed  it  best  to  leave  him  altogether  to  himself,  offering 
neither  advice  nor  opinion.  What  Providence  willed,  through 
his  will,  would  happen:  for  me  to  interfere  either  way  would 
be  at  once  idle  and  perilous;  nay,  in  some  sense,  exceedingly 
wrong. 

So  I  kept  my  thoughts  to  myself,  and  preserved  a  total  si- 
lence. 

John  broke  it — talking  to  himself  as  if  he  had  forgotten  I 
was  by. 

"To  think  it  was  she  who  did  it — that  first  kindness  to  a 
poor  friendless  boy!  I  never  forgot  it — never.  It  did  me 
more  good  than  I  can  tell.  And  that  scar  on  her  poor  arm — 
her  dear  little  tender  arm!  how  this  morning  I  would  have 
given  all  the  world  to " 

He  broke  off,  instinctively  as  it  were,  with  the  sort  of  feel- 
ing every  good  man  has,  that  the  sacred  passion,  the  inmost 
tenderness  of  his  love,  should  be  kept  wholly  between  himself 
and  the  woman  he  has  chosen. 

I  knew  that,  too;  knew  that  in  his  heart  had  grown  up  a  se- 
cret, a  necessity,  a  desire,  stronger  than  any  friendship — closer 
than  the  closest  bond  of  brotherly  love.  Perhaps,  I  hardly 
know  why,  I  sighed. 

John  turned  round — "Phineas,  you  must  not  think,  because 
of  this,  which  you  will  understand  for  yourself,  I  hope  one 
day;  you  must  not  think  I  could  ever  think  less,  or  feel  less, 
about  my  brother." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  with  a  full  heart.     We  clasped  hands 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  159 

warmly  and  silently.  Thus  was  healed  my  last  lingering  pain; 
I  was  thenceforward  entirely  satisfied. 

I  think  we  parted  that  night  as  we  had  never  parted  before; 
feeling  that  the  trial  of  our  friendship — the  great  trial,  per- 
haps, of  any  friendship — had  come  and  passed,  safely;  that 
whatever  new  ties  might  gather  round  each,  our  two  hearts 
would  cleave  together  until  death. 

The  next  morning  rose,  as  I  have  seen  many  a  morning  rise 
at  Enderley,  misty  and  gray;  but  oh,  so  heavenly  fair;  with  a 
pearly  net-work  of  dewy  gossamer  underfoot,  and  overhead 
countless  thistle-downs  flying  about,  like  fairy  chariots,  hur- 
rying out  of  sight  of  the  sun,  which  had  only  mounted  high 
enough  above  the  Flat  to  touch  the  horizon  of  hills  opposite, 
and  the  tops  of  my  four  poplars,  leaving  Eose  Cottage  and  the 
valley  below  it  all  in  morning  shadow.  John  called  me  to  go 
with  him  on  the  common;  his  voice  sounded  so  cheerful  out- 
side my  door,  that  it  was  with  a  glad  heart  I  rose  and  went. 

He  chose  his  old  walk — his  "terrace."  No  chance  now  of 
meeting  the  light  figure  coming  tripping  along  the  level  hill. 
All  that  dream  was  now  over.  He  did  not  speak  of  it — nor  I. 
He  seemed  contented — or,  at  least,  thoroughly  calmed  down; 
except  that  the  sweet  composure  of  his  mien  had  settled  into 
the  harder  gravity  of  manhood.  The  crisis  and  climax  of 
youth  had  been  gone  through — he  never  could  be  a  boy  again. 

We  came  to  that  part  of  John's  terrace  which  overhung  the 
church-yard.  Both  of  us  glanced  instinctively  down  to  the 
heap  of  loose  red  earth — the  as  yet  nameless  grave.  Some  one 
stood  beside  it — the  only  one  who  was  likely  to  be  there. 

Even  had  I  not  recognized  her,  John's  manner  would  have 
told  me  who  it  was.  A  deadly  paleness  overspread  his  face — 
its  quietness  was  gone — every  feature  trembled — it  almost 
broke  my  heart  to  see  how  deeply  this  love  had  struck  its 
roots  down  to  the  very  core  of  his;  twisting  them  with  every 
fiber  of  his  being.  A  love  which,  though  it  had  sprung  up  so 
early,  and  come  to  maturity  so  fast,  might  yet  be  the  curse  of 
his  whole  existence.  Save  that  no  love  conceived  virtuously, 
for  a  good  woman,  be  it  ever  so  hopeless,  can  be  rightly  con- 
sidered as  a  curse. 

"Shall  we  go  away?"  I  whispered — "a  long  walk — to  the 
other  side  of  the  Flat?  She  will  have  left  Eose  Cottage 
soon." 

"When?" 

"Before  noon,  I  heard.     Come,  David." 


160  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

He  suffered  me  to  put  my  arm  in  his,  and  draw  him  away 
for  a  step  or  two,  then  turned. 

"I  can't,  Phineas,  I  can't!  I  must  look  at  her  again — only 
for  one  minute — one  little  minute." 

But  he  stayed — we  were  standing  where  she  could  not  see 
us — till  she  had  slowly  left  the  grave.  We  heard  the  click  of 
the  church-yard  gate;  where  she  went  afterward,  we  could  not 
discern. 

John  moved  away.  I  asked  him  if  we  should  take  our  walk 
now?  But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear  me;  so  I  let  him  follow  his 
own  way — perhaps  it  might  be  for  good — who  could  tell? 

He  descended  from  the  Flat,  and  came  quickly  round  the 
corner  of  the  cottage.  Miss  March  stood  there,  trying  to  find 
one  fresh  rose  among  the  fast-withering  clusters  about  what 
had  been  our  parlor  window  and  now  was  hers. 

She  saw  us,  acknowledged  us,  but  hurriedly,  and  not  with- 
out some  momentary  signs  of  agitation. 

"The  roses  are  all  gone,"  she  said,  rather  sadly. 

"Perhaps,  higher  up,  I  can  reach  one — shall  I  try?" 

I  marvelled  to  see  that  John's  manner  as  he  addressed  her 
was  just  like  his  manner  always  with  her. 

"Thank  you — that  will  do.  I  wanted  to  take  some  away 
with  me.  I  am  leaving  Kose  Cottage  to-day,  Mr.  Halifax." 

"So  I  have  heard." 

He  did  not  say  "sorry  to  hear."  I  wondered  did  the  omis- 
sion strike  her?  But  no — she  evidently  regarded  us  both  as 
mere  acquaintances,  inevitably,  perhaps  even  tenderly,  bound 
up  with  this  time;  and  as  such,  claiming  a  more  than  ordinary 
place  in  her  regard  and  remembrance.  No  man  with  common 
sense  or  common  feeling  could  for  a  moment  dare  to  misinter- 
pret the  emotion  she  showed. 

Ke-entering  the  house,  she  asked  us  if  we  would  come  in 
with  her;  she  had  a  few  things  to  say  to  us.  And  then  she 
again  referred  gratefully  to  our  "kindness." 

We  all  went  once  more — for  the  last  time — into  the  little 
parlor. 

"Yes,  I  am  going  away,"  said  she,  mournfully. 

"We  hope  all  good  will  go  with  you — always  and  every- 
where." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Fletcher." 

It  was  strange,  the  grave  tone  our  intercourse  now  invar- 
iably assumed.  We  might  have  been  three  old  people,  who 
had  long  fought  with  and  endured  the  crosses  of  the  world, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  161 

instead  of  two  young  men  and  a  young  woman,  in  the  very 
dawn  of  life. 

"Circumstances  have  fixed  my  plans  since  I  saw  you  yes- 
terday. I  am  going  to  reside  for  a  time  with  my  cousins,  the 
Brithwoods.  It  seems  best  for  me.  Lady  Caroline  is  very 
kind,  and  I  am  so  lonely." 

She  said  this  not  in  any  compliment,  but  as  if  accepting  the 
fact,  and  making  up  her  mind  to  endure  it.  A  little  more 
fragmentary  conversation  passed,  chielly  between  herself  and 
me — John  uttered  scarcely  a  word.  He  sat  by  the  window, 
half  shading  his  face  with  his  hand.  Under  that  covert,  the 
gaze  which  incessantly  followed  and  dwelt  on  her  face — oh, 
had  she  seen  it! 

'  The  moments  narrowed.  Would  he  say  what  he  had  in- 
tended, concerning  his  position  in  the  world?  Had  she 
guessed  or  learned  anything,  or  were  we  to  her  simply  Mr. 
Halifax  and  Mr.  Fletcher — two  "gentlemen"  of  Norton  Bury? 
It  appeared  so. 

"This  is  not  a  very  long  good-bye,  I  trust?"  said  she  to  me, 
with  something  more  than  courtesy.  "I  shall  remain  at  the 
My  the  House  some  weeks,  I  believe.  How  long  do  you  pro- 
pose staying  at  Enderley?" 

I  was  uncertain. 

"But  your  home  is  in  Norton  Bury?  I  hope — I  trust,  you 
will  allow  my  cousin  to  express  in  his  own  house  his  thanks 
and  mine  for  your  great  kindness  during  my  trouble?" 

Neither  of  us  answered.  Miss  March  looked  surprised — 
hurt — nay,  displeased;  then  her  eye,  resting  on  John,  lost  its 
haughtiness,  and  became  humble  and  sweet. 

"Mr.  Halifax,  I  know  nothing  of  my  cousin,  and  I  do  know 
you.  Will  you  tell  me — candidly,  as  I  know  you  will — wheth- 
er there  is  anything  in  Mr.  Brithwood  which  you  think  un- 
worthy of  your  acquaintance?" 

"He  would  think  me  unworthy  of  his,"  was  the  low,  firm 
answer. 

Miss  March  smiled  incredulously.  "Because  you  are  not 
very  rich?  What  can  that  signify?  It  is  enough  for  me  that 
my  friends  are  gentlemen." 

"Mr.  Brithwood,  and  many  others,  would  not  allow  my 
claim  to  that  title." 

Astonished — nay,   somewhat  more   than   astonished — the 
young  gentlewoman  drew  back  a  little.    "I  do  not  quite  un- 
derstand you." 
11 


162  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Let  me  explain,  then;"  and  her  involuntary  gesture  seem- 
ing to  have  brought  all  honest  dignity  and  manly  pride,  he 
faced  her,  once  more  himself.  "It  is  right,  Mies  March,  that 
you  should  know  who  and  what  I  am,  to  whom  you  are  giving 
the  honor  of  your  kindness.  Perhaps  you  ought  to  have 
known  before;  but  here  at  Enderley  we  seemed  to  be  equals — 
friends." 

"I  have  indeed  felt  it  so." 

"Then,  you  will  the  sooner  pardon  my  not  telling  you — 
what  you  never  asked,  and  I  was  only  too  ready  to  forget — 
that  we  are  not  equals;  that  is,  society  would  not  regard  us  as 
such,  and  I  doubt  if  even  you  yourself  would  wish  us  to  be 
friends." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you  are  a  gentlewoman,  and  I  am  a  tradesman." 

The  news  was  evidently  a  shock  to  her;  it  could  not  but  be, 
reared  as  she  had  been.  She  sat,  the  eyelashes  drooping  over 
her  flushed  cheeks,  perfectly  silent. 

John's  voice  grew  firmer — prouder — no  hesitation  now. 

"My  calling  is,  as  you  will  soon  hear  at  Norton  Bury,  that  of 
a  tanner.  I  am  apprentice  to  Abel  Fletcher,  Phineas'  father." 

"Mr.  Fletcher!"  She  looked  up  at  me — a  mingled  look  of 
kindliness  and  pain. 

"Ay,  Phineas  is  a  little  less  beneath  your  notice  than  I  am. 
He  is  rich;  he  has  been  well  educated;  I  have  had  to  educate 
myself.  I  came  to  Norton  Bury  six  years  ago — a  beggar-boy. 
No,  not  quite  that,  for  I  never  begged;  either  worked  or 
starved." 

The  earnestness,  the  passion  of  his  tone,  made  Miss  March 
lift  her  eyes,  but  they  fell  again. 

"Yes,  Phineas  found  me  in  an  alley,  starving.  We  stood  in 
the  rain,  opposite  the  mayor's  house.  A  little  girl — you  know 
her,  Miss  March — came  to  the  door,  and  threw  out  to  me  a 
bit  of  bread." 

Now  indeed  she  started.     "You — was  that  you?" 

"It  was  I." 

John  paused,  and  his  whole  manner  changed  into  softness 
as  he  resumed.  "I  never  forgot  that  little  girl.  Many  a  time, 
when  I  was  inclined  to  do  wrong,  she  kept  me  right — the  re- 
membrance of  her  sweet  face  and  her  kindness." 

That  face  was  pressed  down  against  the  sofa  where  she  sat. 
Miss  March  was  all  but  weeping. 

John  continued. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  163 

"I  am  glad  to  have  met  her  again — glad  to  have  been  able 
to  do  her  some  small  good  in  return  for  the  infinite  good  she 
once  did  me.  I  shall  bid  her  farewell  now,  at  once  and  alto- 
gether." 

A  quick  involuntary  turn  of  the  hidden  face  asked  him, 
"Why?" 

"Because,"  John  answered,  "the  world  says  we  are  not 
equals,  and  it  would  neither  be  for  Miss  March's  honor  nor 
mine  did  I  try  to  force  upon  it  the  truth,  which  I  may  prove 
openly  one  day,  that  we  are  equals." 

Miss  March  looked  up  at  him — it  were  hard  to  say  with  what 
expression  of  pleasure,  or  pride,  or  simple  astonishment;  per- 
haps a  mingling  of  all.  She  silently  offered  her  hand,  first  to 
me  and  then  to  John.  Whether  she  meant  it  as  a  friendliness, 
or  as  a  mere  ceremony  of  adieu,  I  cannot  tell.  John  took  it  as 
the  latter  and  rose. 

His  hand  was  on  the  door,  but  he  could  not  go. 

"Miss  March,"  he  said,  "perhaps  I  may  never  see  you  again, 
at  least  never  as  now.  Let  me  look  once  more  at  that  wrist 
which  was  hurt." 

Her  left  arm  was  hanging  over  the  sofa,  the  scar  being  visi- 
ble enough.  John  took  the  hand  and  held  it  firmly. 

"Poor  little  hand,  blessed  little  hand!  May  God  bless  it 
evermore!" 

Suddenly  he  pressed  his  lips  to  the  place  where  the  wound 
had  been,  a  kiss  long  and  close,  such  as  only  a  lover's  kiss 
could  be.  Surely  she  must  have  felt  it — known  it. 

A  moment  afterward,  he  was  gone. 

That  day  Miss  March  departed,  and  we  remained  at  Ender- 
ley,  alone. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  was  winter-time.  All  the  summer-days  at  Enderley 
were  gone,  "like  a  dream  when  one  awaketh."  Of  her  who 
had  been  the  beautiful  center  of  the  dream  we  had  never  heard 
nor  spoken  since. 

John  and  I  were  walking  together  along  the  road  toward 
the  Mythe;  we  could  just  see  the  frosty  sunset  reflected  on  the 
windows  of  the  Mythe  House,  now  closed  for  months,  the  fam- 
ily being  away.  The  meadows  alongside,  where  the  Avon  had 
overflowed  and  frozen,  were  a  popular  skating  ground:  and 


164  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

the  road  was  alive  with  lookers-on  of  every  class.  All  Norton 
Bury  seemed  abroad;  and  half  Norton  Bury  exchanged  salu- 
tations with  my  companion,  till  I  was  amused  to  notice  how 
large  John's  acquaintance  had  grown. 

Among  the  rest,  there  overtook  us  a  little  elderly  lady,  as 
prim  and  neat  as  an  old  maid,  and  as  bright-looking  as  a  hap- 
py matron.  I  saw  at  once  who  it  was — Mrs.  Jessop,  our  good 
doctor's  new  wife  and  old  love,  whom  he  had  lately  brought 
home,  to  the  great  amazement  and  curiosity  of  Norton  Bury. 

"She  seems  to  like  you  very  much,"  I  said;  as  after  a  cordial 
greeting,  which  John  returned  rather  formally,  she  trotted  on. 

"They  were  both  very  kind  to  me  in  London,  last  month,  as 
I  think  I  told  you." 

"Ay!"  It  was  one  of  the  few  things  he  had  mentioned 
about  that  same  London  journey,  for  he  had  grown  into  a 
painful  habit  of  silence  now.  Yet  I  dreaded  to  break  it,  lest 
any  wounds  rankling  beneath  might  thereby  be  caused  to 
smart  once  more.  And  our  love  to  one  another  was  too  faith- 
ful for  a  little  reserve  to  have  power  to  influence  it  in  any  way. 

We  came  once  more  upon  the  old  lady,  watching  the  skat- 
ers. She  again  spoke  to  John,  and  looked  at  me  with  her 
keen,  kind,  blue  eyes. 

"I  think  I  know  who  your  friend  is,  though  you  do  not  in- 
troduce him."  (John  hastily  performed  that  ceremony.) 
"Tom  and  I"  (how  funny  to  hear  her  call  our  old  bachelor 
doctor  "Tom")  "were  wondering  what  had  become  of  you, 
Mr.  Halifax.  Are  you  stronger  than  you  were  in  London?" 

"Was  he  ill  in  London,  madam?" 

"No,  indeed,  Phineas!  Or  only  enough  to  win  for  me  Dr. 
and  Mrs.  Jessop's  great  kindness." 

"Which  you  have  never  come  to  thank  us  for.  Never 
crossed  our  door-sill  since  we  returned  home!  Does  not  your 
conscience  sting  you  for  your  ingratitude?" 

He  colored  deeply. 

"Indeed,  Mrs.  Jessop,  it  was  not  ingratitude." 

"I  know  it;  I  believe  it,"  she  answered,  with  much  kindness. 
"Tell  me  what  it  was." 

He  hesitated. 

"You  ought  to  believe  the  warm  interest  we  both  take  in 
you.  Tell  me  the  plain  truth." 

"I  will.  It  is  that  your  kindness  to  me  in  London  was  no 
reason  for  my  intruding  on  you  at  Norton  Bury.  It  might 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  165 

not  be  agreeable  for  you  and  Dr.  Jessop  to  have  my  acquaint- 
ance here." 

The  little  old  lady's  eyes  brightened  into  something  beyond 
mere  kindness  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"Mr.  Halifax,  I  thank  you  for  that  'plain  truth.'  Truth  is 
always  best.  Now  for  mine.  I  had  heard  you  were  a  trades- 
man; I  found  out  for  myself  that  you  were  a  gentleman.  I 
do  not  think  the  two  facts  imcompatible,  nor  does  my  hus- 
band. We  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  at  our  house  at  all  times 
and  under  all  circumstances." 

She  offered  him  her  hand.     John  bowed  over  it  in  silence. 

"Well,  then,  suppose  you  come  this  evening;  both  of  you?" 

We  assented;  and,  on  her  further  invitation,  John  and  I  and 
the  little  old  lady  walked  on  together. 

I  could  not  help  watching  Mrs.  Jessop  with  some  amuse- 
ment. Norton  Bury  said  she  had  been  a  poor  governess  all 
her  days;  but  that  hard  life  had  left  no  shadow  on  the  cheer- 
ful sunset  of  her  existence  now.  It  was  a  frank,  bright,  hap- 
py face,  in  spite  of  its  wrinkles,  and  its  somewhat  hard  Welsh 
features.  And  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  her  talk,  even  though 
she  talked  a  good  deal,  and  in  a  decidedly  Welsh  accent. 

Sometimes  a  tone  or  two  reminded  me  slightly  of .     Ay, 

it  was  easy  to  guess  why  John  evidently  liked  the  old  lady. 

"I  know  this  road  well,  Mr.  Halifax.  Once  I  spent  a  sum- 
mer here,  with  an  old  pupil  now  grown  up.  I  am  going  to-day 
to  inquire  about  her  at  the  Mythe  House.  The  Brithwoods 
came  home  yesterday. 

I  was  afraid  to  look  at  John.  Even  to  me  the  news  was 
startling.  How  I  blessed  Mrs.  Jessop's  innocent  garrulous- 
ness! 

"I  hope  they  will  remain  here  some  time.  I  have  a  special 
interest  in  their  stay.  Not  on  Lady  Caroline's  account, 
though.  She  patronizes  me  very  kindly;  but  I  doubt  if  she 
ever  forgets  what  Tom  says  I  am  rather  too  proud  of  remem- 
bering— that  I  was  the  poor  governess,  Jane  Cardigan." 

"Jane  Cardigan!"  I  exclaimed. 

"What,  Mr.  Fletcher,  you  know  my  name!  And  really, 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  believe  I  have  heard  yours.  Not  from 

Tom,  either.     It  couldn't  possibly  be,  yet  it  certainly  was . 

How  strange!       Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  a  Miss  Ursula 
March?" 

The  live  crimson  rushed  madly  over  John's  face.     Mrs.  Jes- 


166  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

sop  saw  it;  she  could  not  but  see.  At  first  she  looked  astound- 
ed, then  exceedingly  grave. 

I  replied,  "that  we  had  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Miss 
March  last  summer,  at  Enderley." 

"Yes,"  the  old  lady  continued,  somewhat  formally.  "Now 
I  recollect,  Miss  March  told  me  of  the  circumstance;  of  two 
gentlemen  there,  who  were  very  kind  to  her  when  her  father 
died;  a  Mr.  Fletcher  and  his  friend — was  that  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"It  was,"  I  answered:  for  John  was  speechless.  Alas!  I  saw 
at  once  that  all  my  hopes  for  him,  all  the  design  of  my  long 
silence  on  this  subject,  had  been  in  vain.  No,  he  had  not  for- 
gotten her.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  forget. 

Mrs.  Jessop  went  on,  still  addressing  herself  to  me. 

"I  am  sure  I  ought,  on  behalf  of  my  dear  pupil,  to  offer  you 
both  my  warmest  thanks.  Hers  was  a  most  trying  position. 
She  never  told  me  of  it  till  afterward,  poor  child!  I  am 
thankful  her  trouble  was  softened  to  her  by  finding  that 
strangers" — (was  it  only  my  fancy  that  detected  a  slight  stress 
on  the  word?) — "mere  strangers  could  be  at  once  so  thoughtful 
and  so  kind." 

"No  one  could  be  otherwise  to  Miss  March.  Is  she  well? 
Has  she  recovered  from  her  trial  ?" 

"I  hope  so.  Happily  few  sorrows,  few  feelings  of  any  kind, 
take  lasting  hold  at  eighteen.  She  is  a  noble  girl.  She  did 
her  duty,  and  it  was  no  light  one,  to  him  who  is  gone;  now  her 
life  begins  anew.  It  is  sure  to  be  prosperous — I  trust  it  may 
be  very  happy.  Now  I  must  bid  you  both  good-bye." 

She  stopped  at  the  gates  of  the  Mythe  House,  great  iron 
gates — a  barrier  as  proud  and  impassable  as  that  which  in 
these  times  the  rich  shut  against  the  poor,  the  aristocrat 
against  the  plebeian.  John,  glancing  up  at  them,  hurriedly 
moved  on. 

"Stay;  you  will  come  and  see  us,  Mr.  Halifax?    Promise." 

"If  you  wish  it." 

"And  promise,  too,  that  under  all  circumstances,  you  will 
tell  me,  as  you  did  this  morning,  the  'plain  truth?'  Yes,  I 
see  you  will.  Good-by." 

The  iron  gates  closed  upon  her,  and  against  us.  We  took 
our  silent  way  up  to  the  Mythe  to  our  favorite  stile.  There 
we  leaned,  still  in  silence,  for  many  minutes. 

"The  wind  is  keen,  Phineas;  you  must  be  cold." 

Now  I  could  speak  to  him — could  ask  him  to  tell  me  of  his 
pain. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  167 

"It  is  so  long  since  you  have  told  me  anything.  It  might 
do  you  good." 

"Nothing  can  do  me  good.  Nothing  but  bearing  it.  My 
God !  what  have  I  not  borne  ?  Five  whole  months  to  be  dying 
of  thirst,  and  not  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  my  tongue!" 

He  bared  his  head  and  throat  to  the  cutting  wind — his  chest 
heaved,  his  eyes  seemed  in  a  flame. 

"God  forgive  me!  but  I  sometimes  think  I  would  give  my- 
self body  and  soul  to  the  devil  for  one  glimpse  of  her  face, 
one  touch  of  her  little  hand.*' 

I  made  no  answer.  What  answer  could  be  made  to  such 
words  as  these?  I  waited — all  I  could  do — till  the  paroxysm 
had  gone  by.  Then  I  hinted — as  indeed  seemed  not  unlikely 
— that  he  might  see  her  soon. 

"Yes,  a  great  way  off,  like  that  cloud  up  there.  But  I  want 
her  near — close — in  my  home — at  my  heart,  Phineas,"  he 
gasped;  "talk  to  me  about  something  else — anything.  Don't 
let  me  think,  or  I  shall  go  clean  mad." 

And  indeed  he  looked  so.  I  was  terrified.  So  quiet  as  I 
had  always  seen  him  when  we  met,  so  steadily  as  he  had  pur- 
sued his  daily  duties;  and  with  all  this  underneath — this  tor- 
ment, conflict,  despair,  of  a  young  man's  love.  It  must  come 
out — better  it  should. 

"And  you  have  gone  on  working  all  this  while?" 

"I  was  obliged.  Nothing  but  work  kept  me  in  my  senses. 
Besides" — and  he  laughed  hoarsely — "I  was  safest  in  the  tan- 
yard.  The  thought  of  her  could  not  come  there.  I  was  glad 
of  it.  I  tried  to  be  solely  and  altogether  what  I  am — a  'pren- 
tice lad — a  mere  clown." 

"Nay,  that  was  wrong." 

"Was  it?  Well,  at  least  it  struck  me  so.  I  thought  I  would 
be  a  gentleman  again — just  for  a  pretense,  you  know — a  dream 
— a  bit  of  the  old  dream  back  again.  So  I  went  to  London." 

"And  met  the  Jessops  there?" 

"Yes;  though  I  did  not  know  she  was  Jane  Cardigan.  But 
I  liked  her — I  liked  my  life  with  them.  It  was  like  breathing 
a  higher  air,  the  same  air  that — .  Oh,  Phineas,  it  was  horrible 
to  come  back  to  my  life  here — to  that  accursed  tan-yard!" 

I  said  nothing. 

"You  see,  now,"  and  that  hard  laugh  smote  me  to  the  heart 
again;  "you  see,  Phineas,  how  wicked  I  am  growing.  You 
will  have  to  cut  my  acquaintance  presently." 


168  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Tell  me  the  rest — I  mean  the  rest  of  your  life  in  London," 
I  said,  after  a  pause.  "Did  you  hear  of  her?" 

"Of  course  not;  though  I  knew  she  was  there.  I  saw  it  in 
the  'Court  Circular/  Fancy  a  lady,  whose  name  was  in  the 
'Court  Circular/  being  inquired  after  by  a  tanners  lad!  But 
I  wanted  to  look  at  her — any  beggar  might  do  that,  you  know : 
so  I  watched  in  the  streets  and  parks,  by  theater-doors  at 
nights,  and  by  church-doors  on  Sunday  mornings;  yet  I  never 
saw  her  once.  Only  think,  not  once  for  five  whole  months!" 

"John,  how  could  you  tell  me  you  were  happy?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  of  my  pride;  perhaps  be- 
cause  .  Ah,  don't  look  so  wretched!  Why  did  you  let 

me  say  all  this?  You  are  too  good  for  such  as  I." 

Of  course,  I  took  no  heed  of  idle  words  like  these.  I  let 
him  stand  there,  leaning  against  the  stile,  now  and  then 
grasping  it  with  his  nervous,  muscular  hands,  as  if  he  would 
tear  it  down;  then  I  said  quietly: 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?" 

"Do?  Nothing!  What  can  I  do?  Though  sometimes  a 
score  of  plans  rush  into  my  mind,  such  as  to  run  away  to  the 
Indies,  like  that  young  Warren  Hastings  we  were  talking  of, 
come  back  twenty  years  hence  a  nabob,  and — marry  her." 

"Marry  her,"  I  repeated,  mournfully. 

"Ay,  I  could.  That  is  what  maddens  me.  If  now  she  and 
I  were  to  meet  and  stand  together,  equal  man  and  woman,  1 
could  make  her  love  me;  I  feel  I  could.  Instead  of  crawling 
after  her  thus,  I  would  go  boldly  in  at  those  very  gates — do 
you  think  she  is  there?" 

He  trembled,  actually  trembled,  at  the  mere  thought  of  her 
being  so  near. 

"Oh,  it's  hard,  hard!  I  could  despise  myself.  Why  can- 
not I  trust  my  manhood,  my  honest  manhood  that  I  was  born 
with,  go  straight  to  her  and  tell  her  that  I  love  her;  that  God 
meant  her  for  me  and  me  for  her — true  husband  and  true 
wife?  Phineas,  mark  my  words" — and,  wild  as  his  manner 
was,  it  had  a  certain  force  which  sounded  most  like  prophecy 
— "if  ever  Ursula  March  marries,  she  will  be  my  wife — my 
wife!" 

I  could  only  murmur,  "Heaven  grant  it!" 

"But  we  shall  never  marry,  neither  one  nor  the  other  of  us; 
we  shall  go  on  apart  and  alone  till  the  next  world.  Perhaps 
she  will  come  to  me  then:  I  may  have  her  in  my  heart  there." 

John  looked  upward:  there  was  in  the  west  a  broad,  red, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  169 

frosty  cloud,  and  just  beyond  it,  nay,  all  but  resting  on  it,  the 
new  moon — a  little,  wintry,  soft  new  moon.  A  sight  that 
might  well  have"  hushed  the  maddest  storm  of  passion:  it 
hushed  his.  He  stood  still,  looking  up,  for  many  minutes, 
then  his  eyes  closed,  the  lashes  all  wet. 

"We'll  never  speak  of  this  again,  Phineas;  I'll  not  grieve 
thee  any  more;  I'll  try  and  be  a  better  brother  to  thee  for  the 
future.  Come  along!" 

He  drew  my  arm  in  his  and  we  went  home. 

Passing  the  tan-yard  John  proposed  that  we  should  call  for 
my  father.  My  poor  father;  now  daily  growing  more  sour 
and  old,  and  daily  leaning  more  and  more  upon  John,  who 
never  ceased  to  respect,  and  make  every  one  else  respect,  his 
master.  Though  still  ostensibly  a  'prentice,  he  had  now  the 
business  almost  entirely  in  his  hands.  It  was  pleasant  to  see 
how  my  father  brightened  up  at  his  coming — how  readily, 
when  he  returned  homeward,  he  leaned  upon  John's  strong 
arm,  now  the  support  of  both  him  and  me.  Thus  we  walked 
through  Norton  Bury  streets,  where  everybody  knew  us,  and 
indeed,  as  it  seemed  to  me  this  morning,  nearly  everybody 
greeted  us — at  least,  one  of  us;  but  my  father  walked  along 
soberly  and  sternly,  frowning  at  almost  every  salutation  John 
.Halifax  received. 

"Thee  art  making  far  too  many  friends,  John.  I  warn 
tfceeP 

"Not  friends — only  friendly  acquaintance,"  was  the  gentle 
answer;  he  was  well  used  to  turn  away,  daily  and  hourly,  Abel 
Fletcher's  wrath.  But  it  was  roused  beyond  control  when  Dr. 
Jessop's  neat  little  carriage,  and  neatest  of  little  wives,  stopped 
at  the  curb-stone  and  summoned  John. 

"I  want  you  and  Mr.  Fletcher  to  come  to  us  to-morrow  in- 
stead of  this  evening.  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  wishes  to 
see  you." 

"Me?' 

"Yes,  you,"  smiled  the  old  lady;  "you,  John  Halifax,  the 
hero  of  the  people,  who  quelled  the  bread  riots,  and  gave  evi- 
dence thereupon  to  Mr.  Pitt,  in  London.  Nay!  why  didn't 
you  tell  me  the  wonderful  story?  Her  ladyship  is  full  of  it. 
She  will  torment  me  till  she  sees  you;  I  know  her  ways.  For 
my  sake,  you  must  come." 

Waiting  no  refusal,  Mrs.  Jessop  drove  on. 

"What's  that?"  said  my  father,  sharply.  "John,  where  art 
thee  going?" 


170  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

I  knew  this  was  the  first  warning-gun  of  a  battle  which 
broke  out  afresh  every  time  John  appeared  in  any  livelier  garb 
than  his  favorite  gray,  or  was  suspected  of  any  more  worldly 
associates  than  our  quiet  selves.  He  always  took  my  father's 
attacks  patiently;  this  time  peculiarly  so.  He  made  no  an- 
swer, but  passed  his  hand  once  or  twice  over  his  brow,  as  if  he 
could  not  see  clearly. 

Abel  Fletcher  repeated  the  question. 

"Yes;  that  was  Mrs.  Jessop,  sir/* 

"I  know,"  grumbled  my  father.  "The  doctor  is  a  fool  in 
his  old  age.  Who  did  she  want  thee  to  meet?" 

"She — oh,  Lady  Caroline,  you  mean?" 

"'Lady  Caroline  wishes  particularly  to  see  John." 

Abel  Fletcher  stopped,  planted  his  stick  in  the  ground,  re- 
leased his  arm  from  John's,  and  eyed  him  from  top  to  toe. 

"Thee? — a  woman  of  quality  wanting  to  see  thee?  Young 
man,  thee  art  a  hypocrite!" 

"Sir!" 

"'I  knew  it!  I  foresaw  how  thy  fine  ways  would  end!  Go- 
ing to  London;  crawling  at  the  heels  of  grand  folk;  despising 
thy  honest  trade;  trying  to  make  thyself  appear  a  gentleman!'' 

"I  hope  I  am  a  gentleman." 

Words  could  not  describe  my  father's  horrified  astonish- 
ment. "Oh,  lad!"  he  cried — "poor,  misguided  lad! — the  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  thee!" 

John  smiled,  his  mind  evidently  full  of  other  things.  Abel 
Fletcher's  anger  grew. 

"And  thee  wants  to  hang  on  to  the  tail  of  other  'gentlemen,' 
such  as  Eichard  Brithwood,  forsooth!  a  fox-hunting,  drinking, 
dicing  fool!" 

I  was  shocked;  I  had  not  believed  him  so  bad  as  that,  the 
young  'squire,  Miss  March's  cousin. 

"Or,"  pursued  my  father,  waxing  hotter  and  hotter,  "or  a 
'lady,'  such  as  his  wife  is,  the  Jezebel  daughter  of  an  Ahab 
father,  brought  up  in  the  impious  atrocities  of  France  and  the 
debaucheries  of  Naples,  where,  though  she  keeps  it  close  here, 
she  abode  with  that  vile  woman  whom  they  call  Lady  Hamil- 
ton." 

John  started.  Well  he  might,  for  even  to  our  quiet  town 
had  come,  all  this  winter,  foul  newspaper  tales  about  Nelson 
and  Lady  Hamilton. 

"Take  care!"  he  said,  in  much  agitation.  "Any  taint  upon 
a  woman's  fame  harms  not  her  alone,  but  all  connected  with 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  171 

her.  For  God's  sake,  sir,  whether  it  be  true  or  not,  do  not 
whisper  in  Norton  Bury  that  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  is  ?i 
friend  of  Lady  Hamilton!" 

"Pshaw!     What  is  either  woman  to  us?" 

And  my  father  climbed  the  steps  to  his  own  door,  John  fol- 
lowing. 

"Nay,  young  gentleman,  my  poor  house  is  hardly  good 
enough  for  such  as  thee." 

John  turned,  cruelly  galled,  but  recovered  himself. 

''You  are  unjust  to  me,  Abel  Fletcher;  and  you  yourself 
will  think  so  soon.  May  I  come  in?" 

My  father  made  no  answer,  and  I  brought  John  in  as  usual. 
In  truth,  we  had  both  more  to  think  of  than  Abel  Fletcher's 
temporary  displeasure.  This  strange  chance — what  might  it 
imply?  to  what  might  it  not  lead?  But  no;  if  I  judged  Mrs. 
Jessop  aright,  it  neither  implied,  nor  would  lead  to,  what  I 
saw  John's  fancy  had  at  once  sprung  toward,  and  revelled  in 
madly.  A  lover's  fancy — a  lover's  hope.  Even  I  could  see 
what  will-o'-the-wisps  they  were. 

But  the  doctor's  good  wife,  Ursula  March's  wise  governess, 
would  never  lure  a  young  man  with  such  phantoms  as  these. 
I  felt  sure — certain — that  if  we  met  the  Brithwoods,  we  should 
meet  no  one  else.  Certain,  even  when,  as  we  sat  at  our  dish 
of  tea,  there  came  in  two  little  dainty  notes — the  first  invita- 
tions to  worldly  festivity  that  had  ever  tempted  our  Quaker 
household,  and  which  Jael  flung  out  of  her  fingers  as  if  they 
had  been  coals  from  Gehenna — notes,  bidding  us  to  a  "little 
supper"  at  Dr.  Jessop's,  with  Mr.  and  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood, of  the  Mythe  House. 

"Give  them  to  your  father,  Phineas."  And  John  vainly 
tried  to  hide  the  flash  of  his  eye — the  smiles  that  came  and 
went  like  summer  lightning.  "To-morrow — you  see,  it  is  to- 
morrow." 

Poor  lad!  he  had  forgotten  every  worldly  thing,  in  the  hope 
of  that  to-morrow. 

My  father's  sharp  voice  roused  him.  "Phineas,  thee'll  stay 
at  home.  Tell  the  woman  I  say  so." 

"And  John,  father?" 

"John  may  go  to  ruin  if  he  chooses.  He.  is  his  own  mas- 
ter." 

"I  have  been  always."  And  the  answer  came  less  in  pride 
than  sadness.  "I  might  have  gone  to  ruin  years  ago,  but  for 


172  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

the  mercy  of  Heaven  and  your  kindness.  Do  not  let  us  be  at 
warfare  now." 

"All  thy  own  fault,  lad.  Why  cannot  thee  keep  in  thy  own 
rank?  Eespect  thyself.  Be  an  honest  tradesman,  as  I  have 
been." 

"And  as  I  trust  always  to  be.  But  that  is  only  my  calling, 
not  me.  I — John  Halifax — am  just  the  same  whether  in  the 
tan-yard  or  Dr.  Jessop's  drawing-room.  The  one  position 
cannot  degrade,  nor  the  other  elevate  me.  I  should  not  're- 
spect myself,'  if  I  believed  otherwise." 

"Eh?"  my  father  absolutely  dropped  his  pipe  in  amaze- 
ment. "Then,  thee  thinkest  thyself  already  quite  a  gentle- 
man?" 

"As  I  told  you  before,  sir — I  hope  I  am." 

"Fit  to  associate  with  the  finest  folk  in  the  land?" 

"If  they  desire  it,  and  I  choose  it,  certainly." 

Now,  Abel  Fletcher,  like  all  honest  men,  liked  honesty.  And 
something  in  John's  bold  spirit  and  free  brignt  eye,  seemed 
to-day  to  strike  him  more  than  ordinarily. 

"Lad,  lad,  thee  art  young.  But  it  won't  last — no,  it  won't 
last." 

He  knocked  the  white  ashes  out  of  his  pipe — it  had  been 
curling  in  brave  wreaths  to  the  very  ceiling,  two  minutes  be- 
fore— and  sat  musing. 

"But  about  to-morrow?"  persisted  John,  after. watching  him 
some  little  time.  "I  could  go — I  could  have  gone,  without 
either  your  knowledge  or  permission;  but  I  had  rather  deal 
openly  with  you.  You  know  I  always  do.  You  have  been 
the  kindest  master — the  truest  friend  to  me;  I  hope,  as  long  as 
I  live,  rarely  to  oppose,  and  never  to  deceive  you." 

His  manner — earnest,  yet  most  respectful — his  candid  looks, 
under  which  lurked  an  evident  anxiety  and  pain,  Aight  have 
mollified  a  harder  man  than  Abel  Fletcher. 

"John,  why  dost  thee  want  to  go  among  those  grand  folk?" 

"Not  because  they  are  grand  folk.  I  have  other  reasons — 
strong  reasons." 

"Be  honest.     Tell  me  thy  strong  reasons." 

Here  was  a  strait. 

"Why  dost  thee  blush,  young  man?  Is  it  aught  thee  are 
ashamed  of?" 

"Ashamed?    No!" 

"Is  it  a  secret,  then,  the  telling  of  which  would  be  to  thee, 
or  any  one  else,  dishonor?" 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  173 

"Dishonor!"    And  the  bright  eye  shot  an  indignant  gleam. 

"Then  tell  the  truth." 

"I  will.  I  wish  first  to  find  out,  for  myself,  whether  Lady 
Caroline  Brithwood  is  fitted  to  have  under  her  charge  one 
who  is  young — innocent — good." 

"Has  she  such  an  one?     One  thee  knows?" 

"Yes." 

"Man  or  woman?" 

"Woman." 

My  father  turned  and  looked  John  full  in  the  eyes.  Stern 
as  that  look  was,  I  traced  in  it  a  strange  compassion. 

"Lad,  I  thought  so.  Thee  hast  found  the  curse  of  man's 
life — woman!" 

To  my  amazement,  John  replied  not  a  syllable.  He  seemed 
even  as  if  he  had  forgotten  himself  and  his  own  secret — thus, 
for  what  end  1  knew  not,  voluntarily  betrayed — so  absorbed 
was  he  in  contemplating  the  old  man.  And  truly,  in  all  my 
life,  I  had  never  seen  such  a  convulsion  pass  over  my  fathers 
face.  It  was  like  as  if  some  one  had  touched  and  revived  the 
torment  of  a  long-hidden  but  never-to-be-healed  wound.  Not 
till  years  after  did  I  understand  the  full  meaning  of  John's 
gaze,  or  why  he  was  so  patient  with  my  father. 

The  torment  passed — ended  in  violent  anger. 

"Out  with  it!  Who  is  deluding  thee?  Is  it  a  matter  of 
wedlock,  or  only- 


e 


'Stop!"  John  cried,  his  face  all  on  fire.     "The  lady- 


"It  is  a  'lady!'  Now  I  see  why  thee  would  fain  be  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"Oh,  father,  how  can  you?" 

"So  thee  knowest  it,  too;  I  see  it  in  thy  face.  Wouldst  thee 
be  led  away  by  him  a  second  time!  But  thee  shall  not.  I'll 
put  thee  under  lock  and  key  before  thee  shall  ruin  thyself  and 
disgrace  thy  father." 

This  was  hard  to  bear;  but  I  believe — it  was  John's  teaching 
— that  one  ought  to  bear  anything,  however  hard,  from  a  just 
and  worthy  parent.  And  it  was  John  himself  who  now 
grasped  my  hand  and  whispered  patience.  John — who  knew, 
what  I  myself,  as  I  have  said,  did  not  learn  for  years  concern- 
ing my  father's  former  history. 

"Sir,  you  mistake;  Phineas  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with 
this  matter.  He  is  altogether  blameless.  So  am  I  too,  if  you 
heard  all." 

"Tell  me  all;  honor  is  bold — shame  only  is  silent." 


174  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"I  feel  no  shame;  an  honest  love  is  no  disgrace  to  any  man. 
And  my  confessing  it  harms  no  one.  She  neither  knows  of  it 
nor  returns  it/' 

As  he  said  this,  slowly,  gravely,  John  moved  a  step  back  and 
sat  down.  His  face  was  in  shadow;  but  the  fire  shone  on  his 
hands,  tightly  locked  together,  motionless  as  stone. 

My  father  was  deeply  moved.  Heaven  knows  what  ghosts 
of  former  days  came  and  knocked  at  the  old  man's  heart.  We 
all  three  sat  silent  for  a  long  time;  then  my  father  said: 

"Who  is  she?" 

"I  had  rather  not  tell  you.  She  is  above  me  in  worldly  sta- 
tion." 

"Ah!"  a  fierce  exclamation.  "But  thee  wouldst  not  humble 
thyself — ruin  thy  peace  for  life?  Thee  wouldst  not  marry 
her?" 

"I  would — if  she  had  loved  me.  Even  yet,  if  by  any  hon- 
orable means  I  can  rise  to  her  level,  so  as  to  be  able  to  win  her 
love,  marry  her  I  will." 

That  brave  "I  will" — it  seemed  to  carry  its  own  fulfillment. 
Its  indomitable  resolution  struck  my  father  with  wonder;  nay, 
with  a  sort  of  awe. 

"Do  as  thee  thinks  best,  and  God  help  thee!"  he  said,  kind- 
ly. "Mayest  thee  never  find  thy  desire  a  curse.  Fear  not, 
lad;  I  will  keep  thy  counsel." 

"I  knew  you  would." 

The  subject  ceased;  my  father's  manner  indicated  that  he 
wished  it  to  cease.  He  relit  his  pipe,  and  puffed  away,  silently 
and  sadly. 

Years  afterward,  when  all  that  remained  of  Abel  Fletcher 
was  a  green  mound  beside  that  other  mound,  in  the  Friends' 
burying-ground  in  St.  Mary's  Lane,  I  learned — what  all  Nor- 
ton Bury,  except  myself  had  long  known — that  my  poor  moth- 
er, the  young,  thoughtless  creature,  whose  married  life  had 
been  so  unhappy  and  so  brief,  was  by  birth  a  "gentlewoman." 


CHAPTEB  XVII. 


Mrs.  Jessop's  drawing-room,  ruddy  with  fire-light,  glitter- 
ing with  delicate  wax  candle-light;  a  few  women  in  pale-col- 
ored gauzy  dresses,  a  few  men,  sublime  in  blue  coats,  gold  but- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  175 

tons,  yellow  waistcoats,  and  smiles — this  was  all  I  noticed  of 
the  scene,  which  was  quite  a  novel  scene  to  me. 

The  doctor's  wife  had  introduced  us  formally  to  all  her 
guests,  as  the  custom  then  was,  especially  in  these  small,  cosy 
supper-parties.  How  they  greeted  us  I  do  not  now  remem- 
ber; no  doubt  with  a  kind  of  well-bred  formal  surprise;  but 
society  was  generally  formal  then.  My  chief  recollection  is  of 
Mrs.  Jessop's*  saying  pointedly  and  aloud,  though  with  a  smile 
playing  under  the  corners  of  her  good  little  mouth: 

"Mr.  Halifax,  it  is  kind  of  you  to  come;  Lady  Caroline 
Brithwood  will  be  delighted.  She  longs  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance." 

After  that,  everybody  began  to  talk  with  extraordinary  civ- 
ility to  Mr.  Halifax. 

For  John,  he  soon  took  his  place  among  them,  with  that 
modest  self-possession  which  best  becomes  youth.  Society's 
dangerous  waters  accordingly  became  smooth  to  him  as  to  a 
good  swimmer  who  knows  his  own  strength,  trusts  it,  and 
struggles  not. 

"Mr.  Brithwood  and  Lady  Caroline  will  be  late,"  I  over- 
heard the  hostess  say.  "I  think  I  told  you  that  Miss 
March " 

But  here  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  the. missing  guests 
announced.  John  and  I  were  in  the  alcove  of  the  window;  I 
heard  his  breathing  behind  me,  but  I  dared  not  look  at  or 
apeak  to  him.  In  truth,  I  was  scarcely  calmer  than  he.  For, 
chough  it  must  be  clearly  understood  I  never  was  "in  love" 
with  any  woman,  still,  the  reflected  glamour  of  those  Enderley 
days  had  fallen  on  inc.  It  often  seems  now  as  if  I,  too,  had 
passed  the  golden  gate,  and  looked  far  enough  into  youth's 
Eden  to  be  able  ever  after  to  weep  with  those  that  wept  with- 
out the  doors. 

No,  she  was  not  there. 

We  both  sat  down.     I  know  not  if  I  was  thankful  or  sorry. 

I  had  seldom  seen  the  'squire  or  Lady  Caroline.  He  was  a 
portly  young  man,  pinched  in  by  tight,  light-colored  garments. 
She  was  a  lady  rather  past  her  first  youth,  but  very  hand- 
some still,  who  floated  about  leaving  a  general  impression  of 
pseudo-Greek  draperies,  gleaming  arms  and  shoulders,  spark- 
ling jewelry,  and  equally  sparkling  smiles.  These  smiles 
seemed  to  fall  just  as  redundantly  upon  the  family  physician, 
whom,  by  a  rare  favor,  for  so  I  suppose  it  must  have  been,  she 
was  honoring  with  a  visit,  as  if  worthy  Dr.  Jessop  were  the 


176  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

noblest  in  the  land.  He,  poor  man,  was  all  bows  and  scrapes, 
and  pretty  speeches,  in  the  which  came  more  than  the  usual 
amount  of  references  to  the  time  which  had  made  his  fortune, 
the  day  when  her  Majesty  Queen  Charlotte  had  done  him  the 
honor  to  be  graciously  taken  ill  in  passing  through  Norton 
Bury.  Mrs.  Jessop  seemed  to  wear  her  honors  as  hostess  to  ;m 
earl's  daughter  very  calmly  indeed.  She  performed  the  ordi- 
nary courtesies,  and  then  went  over  to  talk  with  Mr.  Brith- 
wood.  In  her  conversation,  I  sought  in  vain  the  name  of  Ur- 
sula. 

So  it  ended,  the  sickening  expectation  which  I  had  read  in 
the  lad's  face  all  day.  He  would  not  see  her — perhaps  it  was 
best.  Yet  my  heart  bled  when  I  looked  at  him.  But  such 
thoughts  could  not  be  indulged  in  now,  especially  as  Mrs.  Jes- 
sop's  quick  eyes  seemed  often  upon  him  or  me,  with  an  ex- 
pression that  I  could  not  make  out  at  all,  save  that  in  such  a 
good  woman,  whom  Miss  March  so  well  loved,  could  lurk  noth- 
ing evil  or  unkindly. 

So  1  tried  to  turn  my  attention  to  the  Brithwoods.  One 
could  not  choose  but  look  at  her,  this  handsome  Lady  Caro- 
line, whom  half  Norton  Bury  adored,  the  other  half  pursed  up 
their  lips  at  the  mention  of;  but  these  were  of  the  number 
she  declined  to  "know."  All  that  she  did  know,  all  that  came 
within  her  influence,  were  irresistibly  attracted,  for  to  please 
seemed  part  of  her  nature.  To-night,  nearly  every  one  pres- 
ent stole  gradually  into  the  circle  round  her;  men  and  women 
alike  charmed  by  the  fascination  of  her  ripe  beauty,  her  lively 
manner,  her  exquisite  smile  and  laugh. 

I  wondered  what  John  thought  of  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood.  She  could  not  easily  see  him,  even  though  her  acute 
glance  seemed  to  take  in  everything  and  everybody  in  the 
room.  But  on  her  entrance  John  had  drawn  back  a  little, 
and  our  half-dozen  of  fellow-guests,  who  had  been  conversing 
with  him,  crept  shyly  out  of  his  way;  as  if,  now  tho  visible 
reality  appeared,  they  were  aghast  at  the  great  gulf  that  lay 
between  John  Halifax,  the  tanner,  and  the  Brithwoods  of  the 
Mythe.  A  few  even  looked  askance  at  our  hostess,  as  though 
some  terrible  judgment  must  fall  upon  poor  ignorant  Mrs. 
Jessop,  who  had  dared  to  amalgamate  such  opposite  ranks. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  while  everybody  gathered  round 
the  Brithwoods,  John  and  I  stood  alone  and  half -concealed  by 
the  window. 

Very  soon  I  heard  Lady  Caroline's  loud  whisper: 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  177 

"Mrs.  Jessop,  my  good  friend,  one  moment.  Where  is  your 
'jeune  heros,'  'I'homme  du  peuple?'  I  do  not  see  him.  Does 
he  wear  clouted  shoes  and  woollen  stockings?  Has  he  a 
broad  face  and  turned-up  nose,  like  your  'pay sans  Anglais  f' 

"Judge  for  yourself,  my  lady — he  stands  at  your  elbow. 
Mr.  Halifax,  let  me  present  you  to  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood." 

If  Lord  Luxmore's  fair  daughter  ever  looked  confounded  in 
her  life,  she  certainly  did  at  this  minute. 

"Lui?  Mon  Dieu!  Lui!"  And  her  shrug  of  amazement 
was  stopped,  her  half-extended  hand  drawn  back.  No,  it  was 
quite  impossible  to  patronize  John  Halifax.  - 

He  bowed  gravely — she  made  a  gracious  courtesy;  they  met 
on  equal  terms,  a  lady  and  gentleman. 

Soon  her  lively  manner  returned.  She  buckled  on  her 
spurs  for  new  conquest,  and  left  the  already  vanquished  gen- 
tilities of  Norton  Bury  to  amuse  themselves  as  they  best  might. 

"I  am  enchanted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Halifax;  I  adore  'le  peu- 
ple.' Especially" — with  a  sly  glance  at  her  husband,  who, 
with  Tory  Dr.  Jessop,  was  vehemently  exalting  Mr.  Pitt,  and 
'abusing  the  First  Consul  Bonaparte — 'especially  le  peuple 
Franyais.  Me  comprenez  vous?" 

"Madame,  je  vous  comprends." 

Her  ladyship  looked  surprised.  French  was  not  very  com- 
mon among  the  honest  trading  class,  or  indeed  any  but  the 
higher  classes  in  England. 

"But,"  John  continued,  "I  must  dissent  from  Lady  Caroline 
Brithwood,  if  she  mingles  the  English  people  with  'le  peuple 
Francais,'  They  are  a  very  different  class  of  beings." 

"Ah  ca  ira,  pa  ira"  she  laughed,  humming  beneath  her 
breath  a  few  notes  out  of  that  terrible  song.  "But  you  know 
French — let  us  talk  in  that  language;  we  shall  horrify  no  one 
then." 

"I  cannot  speak  it  readil^  I  am  chiefly  self-taught." 

"The  best  teaching.  Mon  Dieu!  Truly  you  are  made  to 
be  'un  hero'  just  the  last  touch  of  grace  that  a  woman's  hand 
gives — had  you  ever  a  woman  for  your  friend? — and  you 
would  be  complete.  But  I  cannot  flatter — plain,  blunt,  hon- 
esty for  me.  You  must — you  shall  be — 'le  homme  du  peu- 
ple.' Were  you  born  such?  Who  were  your  parents?" 

I  saw  John  hesitate;  I  knew  how  rarely  he  ever  uttered 
those  names  written  in  the  old  Bible;  how  infinitely  sacred 
they  were  to  him.  Could  he  blazon  them  out  now,  to  gratify 
this  woman's  idle  curiosity? 

a 


178  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

"Madam,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  was  introduced  to  you  simply 
as  John  Halifax.  It  seems  to  me,  that  so  long  as  I  do  no  dis- 
credit to  it,  the  name  suffices  to  the  world." 

"Ah — I  see!  I  see!"  But  he,  with  his  downcast  eyes,  di£ 
not  detect  the  meaning  smile  that  just  flushed  in  hers,  was 
changed  into  a  tone  of  soft  sympathy.  "You  are  right;  rank 
is  nothing — a  cold,  glittering  marble,  with  no  soul  under. 
Give  me  the  rich  flesh-and-blood  life  of  the  people.  Liberte 
— fraternite — egalite.  I  would  rather  be  a  gamin  in  Paris 
streets,  than  my  brother  William  at  Luxmore  Hall." 

Thus  talked  she,  sometimes  in  French,  sometimes  in  Eng- 
lish, the  young  man  answering  little.  She  only  threw  her 
shining  nets  abroad  the  more;  she  seemed  determined  to 
please.  And  Nature  fitted  her  for  it.  Even  if  not  born  an 
earl's  daughter,  Lady  Caroline  would  have  been  everywhere 
the  magic  center  of  any  society  wherein  she  chose  to  move. 
Not  that  her  conversation  was  brilliant  or  deep,  but  she  said 
the  most  frivolous  things  in  a  way  that  made  them  appear 
witty;  and  the  grand  art,  to  charm  by  appearing  charmed,  was 
hers  in  perfection.  She  seemed  to  float  altogether  upon  and 
among  the  pleasantness  of  life;  pain,  either  endured  or  inflict- 
ed, was  to  her  an  impossibility. 

Thus  her  character  struck  me  on  this  first  meeting,  and 
thus,  after  many  years,  it  strikes  me  still.  I  look  back  upon 
what  she  appeared  that  evening — lovely,  gay,  attractive — in 
the  zenith  of  her  rich  maturity.  What  her  old  age  was,  the 
world  knows  or  thinks  it  knows.  But  Heaven  may  be  more 
merciful — I  cannot  tell.  Whatever  is  now  said  of  her,  I  can 
only  say,  "Poor  Lady  Caroline." 

It  must  have  indicated  a  grain  of  pure  gold  at  the  bottom 
of  the  gold-seeming  dross,  that  from  the  first  moment  she 
saw  him,  she  liked  John  Halifax. 

They  talked  a  long  time.  She  drew  him  out,  as  a  well-bred 
woman  always  can  draw  out  a  young  man  of  sense.  He 
looked  pleased;  he  conversed  well.  Had  he  forgotten?  No; 
the  restless  wandering  of  his  eyes  at  the  slightest  sound  in  the 
room  told  how  impossible  it  was  he  should  forget.  Yet  he 
comported  himself  bravely,  and  I  was  proud  that  Ursula's 
kindred  should  see  him  as  he  was. 

"Lady  Caroline  (her  ladyship  turned,  with  a  slightly  bored 
expression,  to  her  intrusive  hostess),  I  fear  we  must  give  up  all 
expectation  of  our  young  friend  to-night." 

"I  told  you  so.     Post-traveling  is  very  uncertain,  and  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  179 

Bath  roads  are  not  good.  Have  you  ever  visited  Bath,  Mr. 
Halifax?" 

"But  she  is  surely  long  on  the  road/'  pursued  Mrs.  Jessop, 
rather  anxiously.  "What  attendance  had  she?" 

"Her  own  maid,  and  our  man  Laplace.  Nay,  don't  be 
alarmed,  excellent  and  faithful  gouvernante!  I  assure  you 
your  fair  ex-pupil  is  quite  safe.  The  furore  about  her  has 
considerably  abated  since  the  heiress-hunters  at  Bath  discov- 
ered the  melancholy  fact  that  Miss  March " 

"Pardon  me,"  interrupted  the  other;  "we  are  among  strang- 
ers. I  assure  you,  I  am  quite  satisfied  about  my  dear  child." 

"What  a  charming  thing  is  affectionate  fidelity,"  observed 
her  ladyship,  turning  once  more  to  John,  with  a  sweet,  lazy 
dropping  of  the  eyelids. 

The  young  man  only  bowed.  They  resumed  their  conver- 
sation— at  least,  she  did,  talking  volubly;  satisfied  with  mono- 
syllabic answers. 

It  was  now  almost  supper-time — held  a  glorious  hour  at 
Norton  Bury  parties.  People  began  to  look  anxiously  to  the 
door. 

"Before  we  adjourn,"  said  Lady  Caroline,  "I  must  do  what 
it  will  be  difficult  to  accomplish  after  supper;"  and  for  the 
first  time  a  sharp,  sarcastic  tone  jarred  in  her  smooth  voice. 
"'I  must  introduce  you  especially  to  my  husband.  Mr.  Brith- 
wood?" 

"Madam."  He  lounged  up  to  her.  They  were  a  diverse 
pair.  She,  in  her  well-preserved  beauty,  and  Gallic  artificial 
grace — he,  in  his  coarse,  bloated  youth,  coarser  and  worse  than 
the  sensualism  of  middle  age. 

"Mr.  Brithwood,  let  me  introduce  you  to  a  new  friend  of 
mine." 

The  'squire  bowed,  rather  awkwardly;  proving  the  truth  of 
what  Norton  Bury  often  whispered,  that  Richard  Brithwood 
was  more  at  home  with  grooms  than  gentlemen. 

"He  belongs  to  this  your  town.  You  must  have  heard  of 
hirn,  perhaps  met  him." 

"I  have  more  than  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Brith- 
wood, but  he  has  doubtless  forgotten  it." 

"By  Jove!  I  have.     What  might  your  name  be,  sir?" 

"John  Halifax." 

"What,  Halifax,  the  tanner?" 

"The  same." 

"Phew!"    He  began  a  low  whistle,  and  turned  on  his  heel. 


180  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

John  changed  color  a  little.  Lady  Caroline  laughed — a 
thoughtless,  amused  laugh,  with  a  pleasant  murmur  of  "JBete!" 
" Anglais!"  Nevertheless,  she  whispered  her  husband: 

"Mon  ami — you  forget;  I  have  introduced  you  to  this  gen- 
tleman." 

"Gentleman,  indeed!  Pooh!  rubbish!  Lady  Caroline — I'm 
busy  talking." 

"And  so  are  we  most  pleasantly.  I  only  called  you  as  a 
matter  of  form,  to  ratify  my  invitation.  Mr.  Halifax,  will,  I 
hope,  dine  with  us  next  Sunday." 

"The  devil  he  will!" 

"Eichard,  you  hurt  me!"  with  a  little  scream,  as  she  pushed 
his  rough  fingers  from  her  arm,  so  soft,  and  round,  and  fair. 

"Madam,  you  must  be  crazy.  The  young  man  is  a  trades- 
man— a  tanner.  Not  fit  for  my  society." 

"Precisely;  I  invite  him  for  my  own." 

But  the  whispers  and  responses  were  alike  unheeded  by 
their  object.  For,  at  the- door-way,  entering  with  Mrs.  Jessop, 
was  a  tall  girl  in  deep  mourning.  We  knew  her — we  both 
knew  her — our  dream  at  Enderley — our  "nut-browne  mayde." 

John  was  near  to  the  door — their  eyes  met.  She  bowed,  he 
returned  it.  He  was  very  pale.  For  Miss  March,  her  face 
and  neck  were  all  in  a  glow.  Neither  spoke,  nor  offered  more 
than  this  passing  acknowledgment,  and  she  moved  on. 

She  came  and  sat  down  beside  me,  accidentally,  I  believe; 
but  when  she  saw  me,  she  held  out  her  hand.  We  exchanged 
a  word  or  two — her  manner  was  unaltered;  but  she  spoke  hur- 
riedly, and 'her  fingers  had  their  old  nervous  twitch.  She  said 
this  meeting  was  to  her  "unexpected,"  but  "she  was  very  glad 
to  see  me." 

So  she  sat,  and  I  looked  sideways  at  her  dropped  eyes,  her 
forehead  with  its  coronet  of  chestnut  curls.  How  would  ho 
bear  the  sight — he  of  whose  heart  mine  was  the  mere  faint 
echo?  Yet  truly  an  echo,  repeating  with  cruel  faithfulness 
every  throb. 

He  kept  his  position,  a  little  aloof  from  the  Brith woods,  who 
were  holding  a  slight  altercation — though  more  of  looks  than 
words.  John  heeded  them  not.  I  was  sure,  though  he  had 
never  looked  directly  toward  us,  that  he  had  heard  every 
syllable  Miss  March  said  to  me. 

The  'squire  called  across  the  room,  in  a  patronizing  tone, 
"My  good  fellow — that  is,  ahem!  I  say,  young  Halifax!" 

"Were  you  addressing  me,  Mr.  Brithwood?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  181 

"I  was.     I  want  a  quiet  word  or  two — between  ourselves." 

"Certainly." 

They  stood  face  to  face.  The  one  seemed  uncomfortable, 
the  other  was  his  natural  self — a  little  graver,  perhaps,  as  if 
he  felt  what  was  coining,  and  prepared  to  meet  it,  knowing  in 
whose  presence  he  had  to  prove  himself — what  Richard  Brith- 
wood,  with  all  his  broad  acres  could  never  be — a  gentleman. 

Few  could  doubt  that  fact  who  looked  at  the  two  young  men, 
as  all  were  looking  now. 

"On  my  soul,  it's  awkward — I'll  call  at  the  tan-yard  and 
explain." 

"I  had  rather  you  would  explain  here." 

"Well,  then,  though  it's  a  confounded  unpleasant  thing  to 
say — and  I  really  wish  I  had  not  been  brought  into  such  a  po- 
sition— you'll  not  heed  my  wife's  nonsense?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Come,  it's  no  use  running  to  cover  in  that  way.  Let's  be 
open  and  plain.  I  mean  no  offense.  You  may  be  a  very  re- 
spectable young  man  for  aught  I  know,  still  rank  is  rank.  Of 
course,  Dr.  Jessop  asks  whom  he  likes  to  his  house — and,  by 
George!  I'm  always  civil  to  everybody — but  really,  in  spite  of 
my  lady's  likings,  I  can't  well  invite  you  to  my  table!" 

"Nor  could  I  humiliate  myself  by  accepting  any  such  invi- 
tation." 

He  said  the  words  distinctly,  so  that  the  whole  circle  might 
have  heard,  and  was  turning  away,  when  Mr.  Brithwood  fired 
up — as  an  angry  man  does  in  a  losing  game. 

"Humiliate  yourself!  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  Wouldn't 
you  be  only  too  thankful  to  crawl  into  the  houses  of  your  bet- 
ters, anyhow,  by  hook  or  by  crook?  Ha!  ha!  I  know  you 
would.  It's  always  the  way  with  you  common  folk,  you  riot- 
ers, you  revolutionists.  By  the  Lord!  I  wish  you  were  all 
hanged." 

The  young  blood  rose  fiercely  in  John's  cheek,  but  he  re- 
strained himself.  "Sir,  I  am  neither  rioter  nor  revolutionist." 

"But  you  are  a  tradesman.  You  used  to  drive  Fletcher's 
cart  of  skins." 

"I  did." 

"And  are  you  not — I  remember  you  now — the  very  lad,  the 
tanner's  lad,  that  once  pulled  us  ashore  from  the  eger — Cousin 
March  and  me?" 

I  heard  a  quick  exclamation  beside  me,  and  saw  Ursula  lis- 
tening intently — I  had  not  noticed  how  intently  till  now. 


1S2  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  John,  waiting  for  his  answer.    It  came. 

"Your  memory  is  correct;  I  was  that  lad." 

"Thank'ee  for  it,  too.  Lord!  what  a  jolly  life  I  should  have 
missed!  You  got  no  reward,  though.  You  threw  away  the 
guinea  I  offered  you;  come,  I'll  make  it  twenty  guineas  to- 
morrow." 

The  insult  was  too  much.  "Sir,  you  forget  that  whatever 
we  may  have  been,  to-night  we  meet  as  equals." 

"Equals!" 

"As  guests  in  the  same  house — most  certainly  for  the  time 
being,  equals." 

Richard  Brithwood  stared,  literally  dumb  with  fury.  The 
standers-by  were  dumb,  too,  though  such  fracas  were  then 
not  uncommon  even  in  drawing-rooms,  and  in  women's  pres- 
ence, especially  with  men  of  Mr.  Brithwood's  stamp.  His  wife 
seemed  quite  used  to  it.  She  merely  shrugged  her  shoulders 
and  hummed  a  note  or  two  of  "Caira"  It  irritated  the  hus- 
band beyond  all  bounds. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  my  lady.  What,  because  a  'prentice- 
lad  once  saved  my  life,  and  you  choose  to  patronize  him  as  you 
do  many  an  other  vagabond,  with  your  cursed  liberty  and 
equality,  am  I  to  have  him  at  my  table,  and  treat  him  as  a 
gentleman?  By ,  madam,  never!" 

He  spoke  savagely  and  loud.  John  was  silent;  he  had 
locked  his  hands  together  convulsively;  but  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  his  blood  was  at  boiling  heat,  and  that,  did  he  once  slip 
the  leash  of  his  passions,  it  would  go  hard  with  Richard  Brith- 
wood. 

The  latter  came  up  to  him  with  clinched  fist.  "Now  mark 
me,  you — you  vagabond!" 

Ursula  March  crossed  the  room,  and  caught  his  arm,  her 
eyes  gleaming  fire. 

"Cousin,  in  my  presence  this  gentleman  shall  be  treated  as 
a  gentleman.  He  was  kind  to  my  father." 

"Curse  your  father!" 

John's  right  hand  burst  free;  he  clutched  the  savage  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Be  silent.     You  had  better." 

Brithwood  shook  off  the  grasp,  turned  and  struck  him;  that 
last  fatal  insult,  which  offered  from  man  to  man,  in  those  days, 
could  only  be  wiped  out  with  blood. 

John  staggered.    For  a  moment  he  seemed  as  if  he  would 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  183 

have  sprung  on  his  adversary  and  felled  him  to  the  ground, 
but — he  did  it  not. 

Some  one  whispered,  "He  won't  fight.     He  is  a  Quaker." 

"No!"  he  said,  and  stood  erect;  though  he  was  ghastly  pale, 
and  his  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  strange.  "But  I  am  a 
Christian.  I  shall  not  return  blow  for  blow;  I  am  a  Chris- 
tian." 

It  was  a  new  doctrine;  foreign  to  the  practice,  if  familiar  to 
the  ear,  of  Christian  Norton  Bury.  No  one  answered  him; 
one  or  two  sheered  off  from  him  with  contemptuous  smiles. 
Then  Ursula  March  stretched  out  her  friendly  hand.  John 
took  it,  and  grew  calm  in  a  moment. 

There  arose  a  murmur,  "Mr.  Brithwood  is  going." 

"Let  him  go!"  Miss  March  cried,  anger  still  glowing  in  her 
eyes. 

"Not  so — it  is  not  right.  I  will  speak  to  him.  May  I?" 
John  softly  unloosed  her  detaining  hand  and  went  up  to  Mr. 
Brithwood.  "Sir,  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  leave  this  house 
— I  am  leaving  it.  You  and  I  shall  not  meet  again  if  I  can 
help  it." 

His  proud  courtesy,  his  absolute  dignity  and  calmness,  com- 
pletely overwhelmed  his  blustering  adversary;  who  gazed  open- 
mouthed,  while  John  made  his  adieu  to  his  host  and  to  those 
he  knew.  The  women  gathered  round  him — woman's  instinct 
is  usually  true.  Even  Lady  Caroline,  amid  a  flutter  of  regrets 
declared  she  did  not  believe  there  was  a  man  in  the  universe 
who  would  have  borne  so  charmingly  such  a  "degradation." 

At  the  word  Miss  March  fired  up.  "Madam,"  she  said,  in 
her  impetuous  young  voice,  "no  insult  offered  to  a  man  can 
ever  degrade  him;  the  only  real  degradation  is  when  he  de- 
grades himself." 

John,  passing  out  at  the  door-way,  caught  her  words.  As 
he  quitted  the  room  no  crowned  victor  ever  wore  a  look  more 
joyful,  more  proud. 

After  a  minute,  we  followed  him;  the  doctor's  wife  and  I. 
But  now  the  pride  and  joy  had  both  faded. 

"Mrs.  Jessop,  you  see  I  am  right,"  he  murmured.  "I  ought 
not  to  have  come  here.  It  is  a  hard  world  for  such  as  I.  I 
shall  never  conquer  it — never." 

"Yes,  you  will."  And  Ursula  stood  by  him,  with  crimsoned 
cheek  and  eyes  no  longer  flashing,  but  fearless  still. 

Mrs.  Jessop  put  her  arm  round  the  young  girl.  "I  also 
think  you  need  not  dread  the  world,  Mr.  Halifax,  if  you  always 


184  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

act  as  you  did  to-night;  though  I  grieve  that  things  should 
have  happened  thus,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  this  my  child." 

"Have  I  done  any  harm?  oh!  tell  me,  have  1  done  any 
harm?" 

"No!"  cried  Ursula,  with  the  old  impetuosity  kindling 
anew  in  every  feature  of  her  noble  face.  "You  have  but 
showed  me  what  I  remember  all  my  life — that  a  Christian  only 
can  be  a  true  gentleman." 

She  understood  him — he  felt  she  did;  understood  him  as,  if 
a  man  be  understood  by  one  woman  in  the  world,  he — and  she 
too — is  strong,  safe,  and  happy.  They  grasped  hands  once 
more,  and  gazed  unhesitatingly  into  each  other's  eyes.  All 
human  passion  for  the  time  being  set  aside,  these  two  recog- 
nized, each  in  the  other,  one  aim,  one  purpose,  one  faith; 
something  higher  than  love,  something  better  than  happiness. 
It  must  have  been  a  blessed  moment  for  both. 

Mrs.  Jessop  did  not  interfere.  She  had  herself  known  what 
true  love  was,  if,  as  gossips  said,  she  had  kept  constant  to  our 
worthy  doctor  for  thirty  years.  But  still  she  was  a  prudent 
woman,  not  unused  to  the  world. 

"You  must  go  now,"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  gently  on 
John's  arm. 

"I  am  going.     But  she — what  will  she  do?" 

"Never  mind  me.  Jane  will  take  care  of  me,"  said  Ursula, 
winding  her  arms  round  her  old  governess,  and  leaning  her 
cheek  down  on  Mrs.  Jessop's  shoulder. 

We  had  never  seen  Miss  March  show  fondness,  that  is,  car- 
essing fondness,  to  any  one  before.  It  revealed  her  in  a  new 
light;  betraying  the  depths  there  were  in  her  nature;  infinite 
depths  of  softness  and  of  love. 

John  watched  her  for  a  minute;  a  long,  wild,  greedy  min- 
ute, then  whispered  hoarsely  to  me,  "I  must  go." 

We  made  a  hasty  adieu,  and  went  out  together  into  the 
night — the  cold,  bleak  night,  all  blast  and  storm. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

For  weeks  after,  then,  we  went  on  in  our  usual  way,  Ursula 
March  living  within  a  stone's  throw  of  us.  She  had  left  her 
cousin's,  and  come  to  reside  with  Dr.  Jessop  and  his  wife, 

It  was  a  very  hard  trial  for  John, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  185 

Neither  of  us  were  again  invited  by  Mrs.  Jessop.  We  could 
not  blame  her;  she  held  a  precious  charge,  and  Norton  Bury 
was  a  horrible  place  for  gossip.  Already  tale  after  tale  had 
gone  abroad  about  Miss  March's  "ingratitude"  to  her  rela- 
tions. Already  tongue  after  tongue  had  repeated,  in  every 
possible  form  of  lying,  the  anecdote  of  "Young  Halifax  and 
the  'squire."  Had  it  been  "young  Halifax  and  Miss  March," 
I  truly  believe  John  could  not  have  borne  it. 

As  it  was,  though  he  saw  her  constantly,  it  was  always  by 
chance:  a  momentary  glimpse  at  the  window,  or  a  passing  ac- 
knowledgment in  the  street.  I  knew  quite  well  when  he  had 
thus  met  her — whether  he  mentioned  it  or  not — knew  by  the 
wild,  troubled  look,  which  did  not  wear  off  for  hours. 

I  watched  him  closely,  day  by  day,  in  an  agony  of  doubt  and 
pain. 

For,  though  he  said  nothing,  a  great  change  was  creeping 
over  "the  lad,"  as  I  stijl  fondly  called  him.  His  strength,  the 
glory  of  a  young  man,  was  going  from  him;  he  was  becom- 
ing thin,  weak,  restless-eyed.  That  healthy  energy  and  gentle 
composure,  which  had  been  so  beautiful  in  him  all  his  life 
through,  were  utterly  lost. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  thee,  David?"  said  I  to  him  one 
evening,  when  he  had  come  in,  looking  worse  than  usual — I 
knew  why;  for  Ursula  and  her  friend  had  just  passed  our 
house,  taking  their  pleasant  walk  in  the  spring  twilight.  "Thou 
art  very  ill,  I  fear." 

"Not  at  all.  There  is  not  the  least  thing  the  matter  with 
me.  Do  let  me  alone." 

Two  minutes  afterward,  he  begged  my  pardon  for  those 
sharp-spoken  words.  "It  was  not  thee  that  spoke,  John,"  I 
said. 

"No,  you  are  right,  it  was  not  I.  It  was  a  sort  of  devil  that 
lodges  here;"  he  touched  his  breast.  "The  chamber  he  lives 
in  is  at  times  a  burning  hell." 

He  spoke  in  a  low  tone  of  great  anguish.  What  could  I  an- 
swer? Nothing. 

We  stood  at  the  window,  looking  idly  out.  The  chestnut- 
trees  in  the  Abbey  yard  were  budding  green;  there  came  that 
faint,  sweet  sound  of  children  at  play,  which  one  hears  as  the 
days  begin  to  lengthen. 

"It's  a  lovely  evening,"  he  said. 

"John!"  I  looked  him  in  the  face,    He  could  not  palm  off 


186  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

that  kind  deceit  upon  me.  "You  have  heard  something  about 
her?" 

"I  have,"  he  groaned.     "She  is  leaving  Norton  Bury." 

"Thank  God!"  I  muttered. 

John  turned  fiercely  upon  me — but  only  for  a  moment. 
'•'Perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  'Thank  God/  This  could  not  have 
lasted  long,  or  it  would  have  made  me — what  I  pray  his 
mercy  to  save  me  from,  or  to  let  me  die.  Oh,  lad,  if  I  could 
only  die!" 

lie  bent  down  over  the  window-sill,  crushing  his  forehead 
on  his  hands. 

"John,"  1  said,  in  this  depth  of  despair  snatching  at  an 
equally  desperate  hope,  "what  if,  instead  of  keeping  this  si- 
lence, you  were  to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  all?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that:  a  noble  thought,  worthy  of  a  poor 
'prentice  lad !  Why,  two  several  evenings  I  have  been  insane 
enough  to  walk  to  Dr.  Jessop's  door,  which  I  have  never  en- 
tered, and — mark  you  well!  they  have  never  asked  me  to  enter 
since  that  night.  But  each  time  ere  I  knocked  my  senses 
came  back,  and  I  went  home— luckily  having  made  myself 
neither  a  fool  nor  a  knave." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  either.  Alas,  I  knew  as  well 
as  he  did,  that  in  the  eye  of  the  world's  common-sense,  for  a 
young  man  not  twenty-one,  a  tradesman's  apprentice,  to  ask 
the  hand  of  a  young  gentlewoman,  uncertain  if  she  loved  him, 
was  most  utter  folly.  Also,  for  a  penniless  youth  to  sue  a  lady 
with  a  fortune,  even  though  it  was  (the  Brithwoods  took  care 
to  publish  the  fact)  smaller  than  was  at  first  supposed — would, 
in  the  eye  of  the  world's  honor,  be  not  very  much  unlike  knav- 
ery. There  was  no  help — none! 

"David,"  I  groaned,  "I  would  you  had  never  seen  her." 

"Hush!  not  a  word  like  that.  If  you  heard  all  I  hear  of  her 
—daily — hourly — her  unselfishness,  her  energy,  her  generous, 
warm  heart!  It  is  blessedness  even  to  have  known  her.  She 
is  an  angel — no,  better  than  that,  a  woman!  I  did  not  want 
her  for  a  saint  in  a  shrine;  I  wanted  her  as  a  helpmate,  to 
walk  with  me  in  my  daily  life,  to  comfort  me,  strengthen  me, 
make  me  pure  and  good.  I  could  be  a  good  man  if  I  had  her 
for  my  wife.  Now " 

He  rose,  and  walked  rapidly  up  and  down.  His  looks  were 
becoming  altogether  wild. 

"Come,  Phineas,  suppose  we  go  to  meet  her  up  the  road — 
as  I  meet  her  almost  every  day.  Sometimes  she  merely  bends 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  187 

and  smiles,  sometimes  she  holds  out  her  little  hand,  and 
'hopes  I  am  quite  well.'  And  then  they  pass  on,  and  I  stand 
gaping  and  staring  after  them  like  an  idiot.  There — look — 
there  they  are  now/' 

Ay;  walking  leisurely  along  the  other  side  of  the  road — 
talking  and  smiling  to  one  another,  in  their  own  merry,  fa- 
miliar way,  were  Mrs.  Jessop  and  Miss  March. 

They  were  not  thinking  of  us,  not  the  least.  Only,  just  ere 
they  passed  our  house,  Ursula  turned  slightly  round,  and 
looked  behind;  a  quiet,  maidenly  look,  with  the  smile  still  lin- 
gering on  her  mouth.  She  saw  nothing,  and  no  one;  for  John 
had  pulled  me  from  the  window,  and  placed  himself  out  of 
sight.  So,  turning  back  again,  she  went  on  her  way.  They 
both  disappeared. 

"Now,  Phineas,  it  is  all  ended." 

"'What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  have  looked  on  her  for  the  last  time." 

"Nay — she  is  not  going  yet." 

"Bat  I  am — fleeing  from  the  devil  and  his  angels.  Hurrah, 
Phineas,  lad!  We'll  have  a  merry  night.  To-morrow  I  am 
away  to  Bristol,  to  set  sail  for  America." 

He  wrung  my  hands,  with  a  long,  loud,  half-mad  laugh,  and 
then  dropped  heavily  on  a  chair. 

A  few  hours  after,  he  was  lying  on  my  bed,  struck  down  by 
the  first  real  sickness  he  had  ever  known.  It  was  apparently 
a  low,  languish  fever,  which  had  been  much  about  Norton 
Bury  since  the  famine  of  last  year.  At  least,  so  Jael  said;  and 
she  was  a  wise  doctress,  and  had  cured  many.  He  would  have 
no  one  else  to  attend  him — seemed  terrified  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  Dr.  Jessop.  I  opposed  him  not  at  first,  for  well  I 
knew,  whatever  the  proximate  cause  of  his  sickness  might  be, 
its  root  was  in  that  mental  pang  which  no  doctors  could  cure. 
So  1  trusted  to  the  blessed  quiet  of  a  sick-room — often  so  heal- 
ing to  misery — to  Jael's  nursing,  and  his  brother's  love. 

After  a  few  days  we  called  in  a  physician — a  stranger  from 
Coltham— who  pronounced  it  to  be  this  Norton  Bury  fever, 
caught  through  living,  as  he  still  persisted  in  doing,  in  this  old 
attic,  in  that  unhealthy  alley  where  was  Sally  Watkins'  house. 
It  must  have  been  coming  on,  the  doctor  said,  for  a  long  time; 
but  it  had  no  doubt  now  reached  its  crisis.  He  would  be  bet- 
ter soon. 

But  he  did  not  get  better.  Days  slid  into  weeks,  and  still 
he  lay  there,  never  complaining,  scarcely  appearing  to  suffer, 


188  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

except  from  the  wasting  of  the  fever;  yet  when  I  spoke  of  re- 
covery he  "turned  his  face  unto  the  wall" — weary  of  living. 

Once,  when  he  had  lain  thus  a  whole  morning,  hardly 
speaking  a  word,  I  began  to  feel  growing  palpable  the  truth 
which  day  by  day  I  had  thrust  behind  me  as  some  intangible, 
impossible  dread — that  ere  now  people  had  died  of  mere  soul- 
sickness,  without  any  bodily  disease.  I  took  up  his  poor  hand 
that  lay  on  the  counterpane — once,  at  Enderley,  he  had  re- 
gretted its  somewhat  coarse  strength:  now  Ursula's  own  was 
not  thinner  or  whiter.  He  drew  it  back. 

"Oh,  Phineas,  lad,  don't  touch  me — only  let  me  rest." 

The  weak,  querulous  voice — that  awful  longing  for  rest! 
What  if,  despite  of  all  the  physician's  assurances,  he  might  be 
sinking,  sinking — my  friend,  my  hope,  my  pride,  all  my  com- 
fort in  this  life — passing  from  it  and  from  me  into  another, 
where,  let  me  call  never  so  wildly,  he  could  not  answer  me  any 
more,  nor  come  back  to  me  any  more. 

Oh,  God  of  mercy!  if  I  were  to  be  left  in  this  world  without 
my  brother! 

I  had  many  a  time  thought  over  the  leaving  him,  going 
quietly  away  when  it  should  please  the  Giver  of  all  breath  to 
recall  mine,  falling  asleep,  encompassed  and  sustained  by  his 
love  until  the  last;  then  a  burden  no  longer,  leaving  him  to 
work  out  a  glorious  life,  whose  rich  web  should  include  and 
bring  to  beautiful  perfection  all  the  poor  broken  threads  in 
mine.  But  now,  if  this  should  be  all  vain — if  he  should  go 
from  me,  not  I  from  him!  I  slid  down  to  the  ground  to  my 
knees,  and  the  dumb  cry  of  my  agony  went  up  on  high. 

How  could  I  save  him? 

There  seemed  to  be  but  one  way;  I  sprung  at  it;  stayed  not 
to  think  if  it  were  right  or  wrong,  honorable  or  dishonorable. 
His  life  hung  in  the  balance,  and  there  was  but  one  way;  be- 
sides, had  I  not  cried  unto  God  for  help? 

I  put  aside  the  blind,  and  looked  out-of-doors. 

For  weeks  I  had  not  crossed  the  threshold;  I  almost  started 
to  find  that  it  was  spring.  Everything  looked  lovely  in  the 
colored  twilight;  a  blackbird  was  singing  loudly  in  the  Abbey 
trees  across  the  way;  all  things  were  fresh  and  glowing,  laden 
with  the  hope  of  the  advancing  year.  And  there  he  lay,  on 
his  sick-bed  dying! 

All  he  said,  as  I  drew  the  curtain  back,  was  a  faint  moan — 
"No  light!  I  can't  bear  the  light!  Do  let  me  rest!" 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  189 

In  half  an  hour,  without  saying  a  word  to  human  being,  I 
was  on  my  way  to  Ursula  March. 

She  sat  knitting  in  the  summer-parlor  alone.  The  doctor 
was  out;  Mrs.  Jessop  I  saw  down  the  long  garden,  bonneted 
and  shawled,  busy  among  her  gooseberry-bushes — so  we  were 
safe. 

As  I  have  said,  Ursula  sat  knitting,  but  her  eyes  had  a  soft 
dreaminess.  My  entrance  had  evidently  startled  her  and  driv- 
en some  sweet,  shy  thought  away. 

But  she  met  me  cordially;  said  she  was  glad  to  see  me;  that 
she  had  not  seen  either  of  us  lately;  and  the  knitting-pins  be- 
gan to  move  quickly  again. 

Those  dainty  fingers — that  soft,  tremulous  smile — I  could 
have  hated  her! 

"No  wonder  you  did  not  see  us,  Miss  March;  John  has  been 
very  ill,  is  ill  now — almost  dying." 

I  hurled  the  words  at  her,  sharp  as  javelins,  and  watched  to 
see  them  strike. 

They  struck — they  wounded;  I  could  see  her  shiver. 

"111! — and  no  one  ever  told  me?" 

"You?  How  could  it  affect  you?  To  me,  now" — and  my 
savage  words,  for  they  were  savage,  broke  down  in  a  burst  of 
misery — "nothing  in  this  world  to  me  is  worth  a  straw,  in 
comparison  with  John.  If  he  dies " 

I  let  loose  the  flood  of  my  misery.  I  dashed  it  over  her, 
that  she  might  see  it,  feel  it;  that  it  might  enter  all  the  fair 
and  sightly  chambers  of  her  happy  life  and  make  them  desolate 
as  mine.  For  was  she  not  the  cause? 

"Forgive  me!  I  was  cruel  to  thee,  Ursula;  and  thou  wert  so 
good,  so  kind!" 

She  rose,  came  to  me,  and  took  my  hand.  Hers  was  very 
cold,  and  her  voice  trembled  much. 

"Be  comforted.     He  is  young,  and  God  is  very  merciful." 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  sat  down,  nervously  twisting 
and  untwisting  her  fingers.  There  was  in  her  looks  a  wild, 
sorrow,  a  longing  to  escape  from  notice;  but  mine  held  her 
fast,  mercilessly,  as  a  snake  holds  a  little  bird.  She  sat  cow- 
ering, almost  like  a  bird,  a  poor,  broken-winged,  helpless  little 
bird  whom  the  storm  has  overtaken. 

Rising,  she  made  an  attempt  to  quit  the  room. 

"I  will  call  Mrs.  Jessop;  she  may  be  of  use———" 

"She  cannot.    Stay!" 


190  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Further  advice,  perhaps?  Dr.  Jessop — you  must  want 
help " 

"None  save  that  which  will  never  come.  His  bodily  sick- 
ness is  conquered;  it  is  his  mind.  Oh,  Miss  March!"  and  I 
looked  up  at  her  like  a  wretch  begging  for  life,  "do  you  not 
know  of  what  my  brother  is  dying?" 

"Dying!"  A  long  shudder  passed  over  her  from  head  to 
foot,  but  I  relented  not. 

"Think — a  life  like  his,  that  might  be  made  a  blessing  to  all 
he  loves — to  all  the  world — is  it  to  be  sacrificed  thus?  It  may 
be — I  do  not  say  it  will — but  it  may  be.  While  in  health,  he 
could  fight  against  this — this  which  I  must  not  speak  of;  but 
now  his  health  is  gone.  He  cannot  rally.  Without  some 
change,  I  see  clearly,  even  I,  who  love  him  better  than  any  one 
can  love  him " 

She  stirred  a  little  here. 

"Far  better,"  I  repeated;  "for  while  John  does  not  love  me 
best,  lie  to  me  is  more  than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  Yet 

even  I  have  given  up  hope,  unless .  But  I  have  no  right 

to  say  more!" 

There  was  no  need.  She  began  to  understand.  A  deep, 
soft  red,  sunrise  color,  dawned  all  over  her  face  and  neck,  nay, 
tinged  her  very  arms — her  delicate,  bare  arms.  She  looked  at 
me  once — just  once — with  a  mute  but  keen  inquiry. 

"It  is  the  truth,  Miss  March — ay,  ever  since  last  year.  You 
will  respect  it?  You  will,  you  shall  respect  it." 

She  bent  her  head  in  acquiescence — that  was  all.  She  had 
not  uttered  a  single  syllable.  Her  silence  almost  drove  me 
wild. 

"What!  not  one  word?  not  one  ordinary  message  from  a 
friend  to  a  friend? — one  who  is  lying  ill,  too?" 

Still  silence. 

"Better  so!"  I  cried,  made  desperate  at  last.  "Better,  if  it 
must  be,  that  he  should  die  and  go  to  the  God  who  made  him 
— ay,  made  him,  as  you  shall  yet  see,  too  noble  a  man  to  die 
for  any  woman's  love." 

I  left  her — left  her  where  she  sat,  and  went  my  way. 

Of  the  hours  that  followed,  the  less  I  say  the  better.  My 
mind  was  in  a  tumult  of  pain,  in  which  right  and  wrong  were 
strangely  confused.  I  could  not  decide — I  can  scarcely  decide 
now — whether  what  I  had  done  ought  to  have  been  done;  I 
only  know  that  I  did  it — did  it  under  an  impulse  so  sudden 
and  impetuous  that  it  seemed  to  me  like  the  guidance  of  Provi- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  191 

dence.  All  I  could  do  afterward  was  to  trust  the  result  where 
we  say  we  trust  all  things,  and  yet  are  forever  disquieting  our- 
selves in  vain — we  of  little  faith! 

I  have  said,  and  I  say  again,  that  I  believe  every  true  mar- 
riage— of  which  there  is  probably  one  in  every  five  thousand 
of  conjugal  unions — is  brought  about  by  Heaven,  and  Heaven 
only;  and  that  all  human  influence  is  powerless  either  to  make 
e*1  to  mar  that  happy  end.  Therefore,  to  Heaven  I  left  this 
marriage,  if  such  it  was  destined  to  be.  And  so,  after  a  season, 
I  calmed  myself  enough  to  dare  entering  that  quiet  sick-cham- 
ber, where  no  one  ever  entered  but  Jael  and  me. 

The  old  woman  met  me  at  the  door. 

"Come  in  gently,  Phineas;  I  do  think  there  is  a  change." 

A  change!  that  awful  word!  I  staggered  rather  than 
walked  to  John's  bedside. 

Ay,  there  was  a  change,  but  not  that  one — which  made  my 
blood  run  cold  in  my  veins  even  to  think  of.  Thank  God  for 
evermore  for  His  great  mercies — not  that  change! 

John  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  ]S~ew  life  shone  in  his  eyes,  in 
his  whole  aspect.  Life  and — no,  not  hope,  but  something  far 
better,  diviner. 

"Phineas,  how  tired  you  look;  it  is  time  you  were  in  bed." 

The  old  way  of  speaking — the  old,  natural  voice,  as  I  had 
not  heard  it  for  weeks.  I  flung  myself  by  the  bedside — per- 
haps I  wept  outright,  God  knows!  It  is  thought  a  shame  for 
a  man  to  weep;  yet  One  Man  wept,  and  that,  too,  was  over  His 
friend — His  brother. 

"You  must  not  grieve  over  me  any  more,  dear  lad;  to-mor- 
row, please  God!  I  mean  to  be  quite  well  again." 

Amid  all  my  joy,  I  marveled  over  what  could  be  the  cause 
of  so  miraculous  a  change. 

"You  would  smile  if  I  told  you — only  a  dream." 

No,  I  did  not  smile;  for  I  believed  in  the  Ruler  of  all  our 
spirits,  sleeping  or  waking. 

"A  dream  so  curious  that  I  have  scarcely  lost  the  impression 
of  it  yet.  Do  you  know,  Phineas,  she  has  been  sitting  by  me, 
just  where  you  sit  now." 

"She?" 

"Ursula." 

If  I  could  express  the  tone  in  which  he  uttered  the  word, 
which  had  never  fallen  from  his  lips  before — it  was  always 
either  "Miss  March,"  or  the  impersonal  form  used  by  all  lovers 
to  disguise  the  beloved  name — "Ursula,"  spoken  as  no  man 


192  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

speaks  any  woman's  name  save  the  one  which  is  the  music  of 
his  heart,  which  he  forsees  shall  be  the  one  fireside  tune  of  his 
life,  ever  familiar,  yet  ever  sweet. 

"Yes,  she  sat  there  talking.  She  told  me  she  knew  I  loved 
her — loved  her  so  much  that  I  was  dying  for  her;  that  it  was 
very  wrong;  that  I  must  rise  up,  and  do  my  work  in  the  world 
— do  it  for  Heaven's  sake,  not  for  her's;  that  a  true  man  should 
live,  and  live  nohly,  for  the  woman  he  loves;  it  is  only  a  coward 
who  dies  for  her." 

I  listened,  wonder-struck;  for  these  were  the  very  words  that 
Ursula  March  might  have  uttered;  the  very  spirit  that  seemed 
to  shine  in  her  eyes  that  night — the  last  night  she  and  John 
spoke  to  one  another.  I  asked  him  if  there  was  any  more  of 
the  dream? 

"Nothing  clear.  I  thought  we  were  on  the  Flat  at  Ender- 
ley,  and  I  was  following  her;  whether  I  reached  her  or  not,  I 
cannot  tell.  And  whether  I  shall  ever  reach  her,  I  cannot 
tell.  But  this  I  know,  Phineas,  I  will  do  as  she  bade  me;  I  will 
arise  and  walk." 

And  so  he  did.  He  slept  quietly  as  an  infant  all  that  night. 
Next  morning  I  found  him  up  and  dressed.  Looking  like  a 
specter,  indeed;  but  with  health,  courage,  and  hope  in  his 
eyes.  Even  my  father  noticed  it  when,  at  dinner-time,  with 
Jael's  help — poor  old  Jael!  how  proud  she  was — John  crawled 
down-stairs. 

"Why,  thee  art  picking  up,  lad!  Thee'lt  be  a  man  again  in 
no  time." 

"I  hope  so.     And  a  better  man  than  ever  I  was  before." 

"Thee  might  be  better  and  thee  might  be  worse.  Anyhow, 
we  couldn't  do  without  thee,  John.  Hey,  Phineas,  who's 
been  meddling  with  my  spectacles?" 

The  old  man  turned  his  back  upon  us,  and  busily  read  his 
newspaper  upside  down. 

We  never  had  a  happier  meal  in  our  house  than  that  dinner. 

In  the  afternoon  my  father  stayed  at  home — a  rare  thing 
for  him  to  do;  nay,  more,  he  went  and  smoked  his  peaceful 
pipe  in  the  garden.  John  lay  on  an  extempore  sofa,  made  of 
three  of  our  high-backed  chairs  and  the  window-sill.  I  read 
to  him,  trying  to  keep  his  attention,  and  mine,  too,  solely  to 
the  Great  Plague  of  London  and  Daniel  Defoe.  When,  just 
as  I  was  stealthily  glancing  at  his  face,  fancying  it  looked 
whiter  or  more  sunken,  that  his  smile  was  fading,  and  his 
thoughts  were  wandering,  Jael  burst  in. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  193 

"John  Halifax,  there  be  a  woman  asking  for  thee!" 

No,  John — no  need  for  that  start — that  rush  of  impetuous 
blood  to  thy  poor  thin  cheek,  as  if  there  were  but  one  woman 
in  all  the  world.  No,  it  was  only  Mrs.  Jessop. 

At  sight  of  him,  standing  up,  tall,  and  gaunt,  and  pale,  the 
good  lady's  eyes  brimmed  over. 

"You  have  been  very  ill,  my  poor  boy!  Forgive  me — but  I 
am  an  old  woman,  you  know.  Lie  down  again." 

With  gentle  force  she  compelled  him,  and  sat  down  by  his 
side. 

"I  had  no  idea — why  did  you  not  let  us  know — the  doctor 
and  me?  How  long  have  you  been  ill?" 

"I  am  quite  well  now — I  am,  indeed.  I  shall  be  about 
again  to-morrow,  shall  I  not,  Phineas?"  and  he  looked  eagerly 
to  me  for  confirmation. 

I  gave  it  firmly  and  proudly.  I  was  glad  she  should  know 
it — glad  she  should  see  that  the  priceless  jewel  of  his  heart 
would  not  lie  tossing  in  the  mire,  because  a  haughty  gir^ 
scorned  to  wear  it.  Glad  that  she  might  one  day  find  out 
there  lived  not  the  woman  of  whom  John  Halifax  was  not 
worthy. 

"But  you  must  be  very  careful — very  careful  of  yourself, 
indeed." 

'Tie  will,  Mrs.  Jessop.  Or,  if  not,  he  has  many  to  take  care 
of  him.  Many  to  whom  his  life  is  most  precious  and  most 
dear." 

I  spoke — perhaps  more  abruptly  than  I  ought  to  have  spok- 
en to  that  good  old  lady — but  her  gentle  answer  seemed  at  once 
to  understand  and  forgive  me. 

"I  well  believe  that,  Mr.  Fletcher.  And  I  think  Mr.  Halifax 
hardly  knows  how  much  we — we  all — esteem  him."  And 
with  a  kind  motherly  gesture  she  took  John's  hand.  "You 
must  make  haste  and  get  well  now.  My  husband  will  come 
and  see  you  to-morrow.  For  Ursula — "  here  she  carefully 
busied  herself  in  the  depths  of  her  pocket — "my  dear  child 
sends  you  this." 

It  was  a  little  note,  unsealed.  The  superscription  was  sim- 
ply his  name,  in  her  clear,  round,  fair  handwriting — "John 
Halifax." 

His  fingers  closed  over  it  convulsively.  "I — she  is — very 
kind."  The  words  died  away — the  hand  which  grasped,  ay, 
far  more  than  a  minute,  the  unopened  letter,  trembled  like  an 
aspen  leaf. 

13 


194  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Yes,  hers  is  a  grateful  nature,"  observed  Mrs.  Jessop,  sedu- 
lously looking  at  and  speaking  to  me.  "I  would  not  wish  it 
otherwise — I  would  not  wish  her  to  forget  those  whose  worth 
she  proved  in  her  season  of  trouble." 

I  was  silent.  The  old  lady's  tongue  likewise  failed  her. 
She  took  off  her  glove,  wiped  a  finger  across  each  eyelash,  and 
sat  still. 

"Have  you  read  your  little  note,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

No  answer. 

"I  will  take  your  message  back.  She  told  me  what  she  had 
said  to  you." 

Ay,  all  the  world  might  have  read  those  simple  lines: 

"My  Dear  Friend:     I  did  not  know  till  yesterday  that  you  had 
been  ill.    I  have  not  forgotten  how  kind  you  were  to  my  poor 
father.    I  should  like  to  come  and  see  you,  if  you  would  allow  me. 
"Yours  sincerely,  URSULA  MARCH." 

This  was  all  the  note.  I  saw  it,  more  than  thirty  years 
afterward,  yellow  and  faded,  in  the  corner  of  his  pocketbook. 

"Well,  what  shall  I  say  to  my  child?" 

"Say" — he  half  rose,  struggling  to  speak — "ask  her  to 
come." 

He  turned  his  head  toward  the  window,  and  the  sunshine 
glittered  on  two  great  drops,  large  as  a  child's  tear. 

Mrs.  Jessop  went  away.  And  now  for  a  long  hour  we 
waited,  scarcely  moving.  John  lay,  his  eyes  sometimes  closed, 
sometimes  fixed  dreamily  on  the  bit  of  blue  sky  that  shone  out 
above  the  iron  railings,  between  the  Abbey  trees.  More  than 
once  they  wandered  to  the  little  letter  which  lay  buried  in  his 
hands.  He  felt  it  there — that  was  enough. 

My  father  came  in  from  the  garden,  and  settled  to  his  after- 
noon doze;  but  I  think  John  hardly  noticed  him — nor  I.  My 
poor  old  father!  Yet  we  were  all  young  once — let  youth  en- 
joy its  day! 

At  length  Ursula  came.  She  stood  at  the  parlor-door,  rosy 
with  walking — a  vision  of  youth  and  candid  innocence,  which 
blushed  not,  nor  had  need  to  blush,  at  any  intent  or  act  that 
was  sanctified  by  the  law  of  God,  and  by  her  own  heart. 

John  rose  to  meet  her.  They  did  not  speak,  but  only 
clasped  hands. 

He  was  not  strong  enough  for  disguises  now — in  his  first 
look  she  might  have  seen,  have  felt,  that  I  had  told  her  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  195 

truth.  For  hers — but  it  dropped  down,  down,  as  Ursula 
March's  clear  glance  had  never  dropped  before.  Then,  I 
knew  how  all  would  end. 

Jael's  voice  broke  in  sharply.  "Abel  Fletcher,  the  doctor's 
wife  is  wanting  thee  down  in  the  kitchen-garden,  and  she 
says  her  green  gooseberries  bean't  half  as  big  as  our'n." 

My  father  awoke — rubbed  his  eyes — became  aware  of  a 
lady's  presence — rubbed  them  again,  and  sat  staring. 

John  led  Ursula  to  the  old  man's  chair. 

"Mr.  Fletcher,  this  is  Miss  March,  a  friend  of  mine,  who, 
hearing  I  was  ill,  out  of  her  great  kindness " 

His  voice  faltered.  Miss  March  added,  in  a  low  tone,  with 
downcast  e}relids: 

"I  am  an  orphan,  and  he  was  kind  to  my  dear  father." 

Abel  Fletcher  nodded — adjusted  his  spectacles — eyed  her 
all  over — and  nodded  again;  slowly,  gravely,  with  a  satisfied 
inspection.  His  hard  gaze  lingered,  and  softened  while  it  lin- 
gered, on  that  young  face,  whereon  was  written  simplicity, 
dignity,  truth. 

"If  thee  be  a  friend  of  John's,  welcome  to  my  house.  Wilt 
thee  sit  down?" 

Offering  his  hand  with  a  mixture  of  kindness  and  ceremon- 
ious grace  that  I  had  never  before  seen  in  my  Quaker  father, 
he  placed  her  in  his  own  arm-chair.  How  well  I  remember 
her  sitting  there,  in  her  black  silk  pelisse,  trimmed  with  the 
white  fur  she  was  so  fond  of  wearing,  and  her  riding-hat,  the 
soft  feathers  of  which  drooped  on  her  shoulder,  trembling  as 
<$he  trembled!  For  she  did  tremble  very  much. 

Gradually  the  old  man's  perception  opened  to  the  facts  be- 
fore him.  He  ceased  his  sharp  scrutiny  and  half-smiled. 

"Wilt  thee  stay  and  have  a  dish  of  tea  with  us?" 

So  it  came  to  pass,  I  hardly  remember  how,  that  in  an 
hour's  space  our  parlor  beheld  the  strangest  sight  it  had  be- 
held since .  Ah,  no  wonder  that  when  she  took  her  place 

at  the  table's  foot  and  gave  him  his  dish  of  tea  with  her  own 
hand — her  pretty  ringed  lady's  hand — my  old  father  started, 
as  if  it  had  been  another  than  Miss  March  who  was  sitting 
there.  No  wonder  that,  more  than  once,  catching  the  sound 
of  her  low,  quiet,  gentlewoman-like  speech,  different  from  any 
female  voices  here,  he  turned  round  suddenly  with  a  glance, 
half-scared,  half-eager,  as  if  she  had  been  a  ghost  from  the 
grave. 

But  Mrs.  Jessop  engaged  him  in  talk,  and,  woman-hater  as 


196  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

he  was,  he  could  not  resist  the  pleasantness  of  the*  doctor's  lit- 
tle wife.  The  doctor,  too,  came  in  after  tea,  and  the  old  folk 
all  settled  themselves  for  a  cosy  chat,  taking  very  little  notice 
of  us  three. 

Miss  March  sat  at  a  little  table  near  the  window,  admiring 
some  hyacinths  that  Mrs.  Jessop  had  brought  us.  A  wise 
present;  for  all  Norton  Bury  knew  that  if  Abel  Fletcher  had 
a  soft  place  in  his  heart,  it  was  for  his  garden  and  his  flowers. 
These  were  very  lovely;  in  color  and  scent  delicious  to  one 
who  had  been  long  ill.  John  lay  looking  at  them  and  at  her 
as  if,  oblivious  of  past  and  future,  his  whole  life  were  ab- 
sorbed into  that  one  exquisite  hour. 

For  me — where  I  sat  I  do  not  clearly  know,  nor  probably 
did  any  one  else. 

"There,"  said  Miss  March  to  herself,  in  a  tone  of  almost 
childish  satisfaction,  as  she  arranged  the  last  hyacinth  to  her 
liking. 

"They  are  very  beautiful,"  I  heard  John's  voice  answer, 
with  a  strange  tremble  in  it.  "It  is  growing  too  dark  to  judge 
colors;  but  the  scent  is  delicious,  even  here." 

"I  could  move  the  table  closer  to  you." 

"Thank  you;  let  me  do  it:  will  you  sit  down?" 

She  did  so,  after  a  very  slight  hesitation,  by  John's  side. 
Neither  spoke;  but  sat  quietly  there,  with  the  sunset  light  on 
their  two  heads,  softly  touching  them  both,  and  then  as  softly 
melting  away. 

"There  is  a  new  moon  to-night,"  Miss  March  remarked,  ap- 
positely and  gravely. 

"Is  there?  Then  I  have  been  ill  a  whole  month.  For  I  re- 
member noticing  it  through  the  trees  the  night  when — 

He  did  not  say  what  night,  and  she  did  not  ask.  To  sueli 
a  very  unimportant  conversation  as  they  were  apparently  hold- 
ing, my  involuntary  listening  could  do  no  harm. 

"You  will  be  able  to  walk  out  soon,  I  hope,"  said  Miss 
March  again.  "Norton  Bury  is  a  pretty  town." 

John  asked  suddenly — "Are  you  going  to  leave  it?" 

"Not  yet;  I  do  not  know  for  certain;  perhaps  not  at  all.  I 
mean,"  she  added,  hurriedly,  "that  being  independent,  and 
having  entirely  separated  from,  and  been  given  up  by  my 
cousins,  I  prefer  residing  with  Mrs.  Jessop  altogether." 

"Of  course,  most  natural."  The  words  were  formally  spok- 
en, and  John  did  not  speak  again  for  some  time. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  19? 

"I  hope,"  said  Ursula,  breaking  the  pause,  and  then  stop- 
ping, as  if  her  own  voice  frightened  her. 

"What  do  you  hope?" 

"That  long  before  this  moon  has  grown  old,  you  will  be 
quite  strong  again." 

"Thank  you!  I  hope  so,  too.  I  have  need  for  strength 
God  knows!"  He  sighed  heavily. 

"And  you  will  have  what  you  need,  so  as  to  do  your  work  in 
the  world.  You  must  not  be  afraid." 

"I  am  not  afraid.  I  shall  bear  my  burden  like  other  men. 
Every  one  has  some  inevitable  burden  to  bear." 

"So  I  believe." 

And  now  the  room  darkened  so  fast  that  I  could  not  see 
them;  but  their  voices  seemed  a  great  way  off,  as  the  children's 
voices  playing  at  the  old  well-head  used  to  sound  to  me  when  I 
lay  under  the  brow  of  the  Flat,  in  the  dim  twilights  at  Ender- 
ley. 

"I  intend,"  John  said,  "as  soon  as  I  am  able,  to  leave  Norton 
Bury,  and  go  abroad  for  some  time." 

"Where?" 

"To  America.  It  is  the  best  country  for  a  young  man  who 
has  neither  money,  nor  kindred,  nor  position — nothing,  in 
fact,  but  his  own  right  hand  with  which  to  carve  out  his  for- 
tunes— as  I  will,  if  I  can." 

She  murmured  something  about  this  being  "quite  right." 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so."  But  his  voice  had  resumed  that 
formal  tone  which  ever  and  anon  mingled  strangely  with  its 
low,  deep  tenderness.  "In  any  case  I  must  quit  England.  I 
have  reasons  for  so  doing." 

"What  reasons?" 

The  question  seemed  to  startle  John — he  did  not  reply  at 
once. 

"If  you  wish,  I  will  tell  you;  in  order  that,  should  I  ever 
come  back — or  if  I  should  not  come  back  at  all,  you  who  were 
kind  enough  to  be  my  friend,  will  know  I  did  not  go  away 
from  mere  youthful  recklessness,  or  love  of  change." 

He  waited,  apparently  for  some  answer — but  it  came  not, 
and  he  continued: 

"I  am  going  away,  because  there  has  befallen  me  a  great 
trouble,  which,  while  I  stay  here,  I  cannot  get  free  from  or 
overcome.  I  do  not  wish  to  sink  under  it — I  had  rather,  as 
you  said,  'do  my  work  in  the  world/  as  a  man  ought.  No  man 


198  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

has  a  right  to  say  unto  his  Maker:  'My  burden  is  heavier  than 
I  can  bear/  Do  you  not  think  so?" 

"I  do." 

"Do  you  think  I  am  right  in  .thus  meeting,  and  trying  to 
conquer  an  inevitable  ill?" 

"Is  it  inevitable?" 

"Hush!"  John  answered,  wildly.  "Don't  reason  with  me 
— you  cannot  judge — you  do  not  know.  It  is  enough  that  I 
must  go.  If  I  stay  I  shall  become  unworthy  of  myself,  un- 
worthy of .  Forgive  me,  I  have  no  right  to  talk  thus; 

but  }rou  called  me  'friend/  and  I  would  like  you  to  think  kind- 
ly of  me  always.  Because — because ."  And  his  voice 

shook — broke  down  utterly.  "God  love  thee  and  take  care 
of  thee,  wherever  I  may  go!" 

"John,  stay!" 

It  was  but  a  low,  faint  cry,  like  that  of  a  little  bird.  But 
he  heard  it — felt  it.  In  the  silence  of  the  dark  she  crept  up  to 
him,  like  a  young  bird  to  its  mate,  and  he  took  her  into  the 
shelter  of  his  love  for  evermore.  At  once  all  was  made  clear 
between  them;  for  whatever  the  world  might  say,  they  were  in 
the  sight  of  Heaven  equal,  and  she  received  as  much  as  she 
gave. 

When  Jael  brought  in  lights,  the  room  seemed  to  me,  at 
first,  all  in  a  wild  dazzle.  Then  I  saw  John  rise,  and  Miss 
March  with  him.  Holding  her  hand,  he  led  her  across  the 
room.  His  head  was  erect,  his  eyes  shining — his  whole  as- 
pect that  of  a  man  who  declares  before  all  the  world,  "This  is 
my  own." 

"Eh?"  said  my  father,  gazing  at  them  from  over  his  specta- 
cles. 

John  spoke  brokenly,  "We  have  no  parents,  neither  she  nor 
I.  Bless  her — for  she  has  promised  to  be  my  wife." 

And  the  old  man  blessed  her  with  tears. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"I  hardly  like  taking  thee  out  this  wet  day,  Phineas — but  it 
is  a  comfort  to  have  thee." 

Perhaps  it  was,  for  John  was  bent  on  a  trying  errand.  He 
was  going  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Brithwood  of  the  Mythe, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  199 

Ursula's  legal  guardian  and  trustee,  the  fact  that  she  had 
promised  him  her  hand — him,  John  Halifax,  the  tanner.  He 
did  it — nay,  insisted  upon  doing  it — the  day  after  he  came  of 
age,  and  just  one  week  after  they  had  been  betrothed,  this 
nineteenth  day  of  June,  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  one. 

We  reached  the  iron  gates  of  the  My  the  House;  John  hesi- 
tated a  minute,  and  then  pulled  the  bell  with  a  resolute  hand. 

"Do  you  remember  the  last  time  we  stood  here,  John?" 

"I  do,  well." 

But  soon  the  happy  smile  faded  from  his  lips,  and  left  them 
pressed  together  in  a  firm,  almost  painful  gravity.  He  was 
not  only  a  lover,  but  a  man.  And  no  man  could  go  to  meet, 
what  he  knew  he  must  meet,  in  this  house,  and  on  this  errand, 
altogether  unmoved.  One  might  foresee  a  good  deal,  even  in 
the  knowing  side-glance  of  the  servant,  whom  he  startled  with 
his  name,  "Mr.  Halifax." 

"Mr.  Brithwood's  bus}7,  sir;  better  come  to-morrow,"  sug- 
gested the  man,  evident]y  knowing  enough  upon  his  masters 
affairs. 

"I  am  sorry  to  trouble  him,  but  I  must  see  Mr.  Brithwood 
to-day." 

And  John  determinedly  followed  the  man  into  the  grand 
empty  dining-room,  where  on  crimson  velvet  chairs,  we  sat  and 
contemplated  the  great  stag's  head  with  its  branching  horns, 
the  silver  flagons  and  tankards,  and  the  throstles  hopping  out- 
side across  the  rainy  lawn — at  our  fall  leisure  too — for  the 
space  of  fifteen  minutes. 

"This  will  not  do,"  said  John,  quietly  enough,  though  this 
time  it  was  with  a  less  steady  hand  that  he  pulled  the  bell. 

"Did  you  tell  your  master  I  was  here?" 

"Yes,  sir."  And  the  grin  with  which  the  footman  came  in 
somehow  slid  away  from  his  mouth's  corners. 

"How  soon  may  I  have  the  honor  of  seeing  him?" 

"He  says,  sir,  you  must  send  up  your  business  by  me." 

John  paused,  evidently  subduing  something  within  him — 
something  unworthy  of  Ursula's  lover — of  Ursula's  husband 
that  was  to  be. 

"Tell  your  master,  my  business  is  solely  with  himself,  and  I 
must  request  to  see  him.  It  is  important,  say,  or  I  would  not 
thus  intrude  upon  his  time." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Ere  long,  the  man  brought  word  that  Mr.  Brithwood  would 
be  at  liberty,  for  five  minutes  only,  in  the  justice-room.  We 


200  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

were  led  out,  crossing  the  court-yard  once  more — where,  just 
riding  out,  I  saw  two  ladies,  one  of  whom  kissed  her  hand  gay- 
ly  to  John  Halifax — to  the  magistrate's  office.  There,  safe- 
ly separated  from  his  own  noble  mansion,  Mr.  Brithwood  ad- 
ministered justice.  In  the  outer  room  a  stout  young  fellow— 
a  poacher,  probably — sat  heavily  ironed,  sullen  and  fierce;  and 
by  the  door  a  girl  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and — God  pity  her! 
no  ring  on  her  finger — stood  crying;  another  ill-looking  fellow, 
maudlin  drunk,  with  a  constable  by  him,  called  out  to  us  as  we 
passed  for  a  "drop  o'  beer." 

These  were  the  people  whom  Richard  Brithwood,  Esquire, 
magistrate  for  the  county  of ,  had  to  judge  and  punish,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  sense  of  equity  and  his  knowledge  of  his 
country's  law. 

He  sat  behind  his  office-table,  thoroughly  magisterial,  dic- 
tating so  energetically  to  his  clerk  behind  him,  that  we  had 
both  entered,  and  John  had  crossed  the  room,  before  he  saw 
us,  or  seemed  to  see. 

"Mr.  Brithwood." 

"Oh — Mr.  Halifax.     Good-morning." 

John  returned  the  salutation,  which  was  evidently  meant  to 
show  that  the  giver  bore  no  grudge;  that,  indeed,  it  was  im- 
possible so  dignified  a  personage  as  Richard  Brithwood,  Es- 
quire, in  his  public  capacity,  too,  could  bear  a  grudge  against 
so  inferior  an  individual  as  John  Halifax. 

"I  should  be  glad,  sir,  of  a  few  minutes'  speech  with  you." 

"Certainly — certainly;  speak  on;"  and  he  lent  a  magisterial 
ear. 

"Excuse  me,  my  business  is  private,"  said  John,  looking  at 
the  clerk. 

"No  business  is  private  here,"  returned  the  'squire  haugh- 
tily. 

"Then  shall  I  speak  with  you  elsewhere?  But  I  must  have 
the  honor  of  an  interview  with  you,  and  immediately." 

Whether  Mr.  Brithwood  was  seized  with  some  indefinite 
alarm,  he  himself  best  knew  why,  or  whether  John's  manner 
irresistibly  compelled  him  to  civility,  as  the  stronger  always 
compels  the  weaker,  I  cannot  tell — but  he  signed  to  the  clerk 
to  leave  the  room. 

"And  Jones,  send  back  all  the  others  to  the  lock-up  house 
till  to-morrow.  Bless  my  life!  it's  near  three  o'clock.  They 
can't  expect  to  keep  a  gentleman's  dinner  waiting — these  low 
fellows," 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  201 

I  suppose  this  referred  only  to  the  culprits  outside;  at  all 
events,  we  chose  to  take  it  so. 

"Xow — you,  sir — perhaps  you'll  dispatch  your  business;  the 
sooner  the  better." 

"It  will  not  take  long.  It  is  a  mere  matter  of  form,  which 
nevertheless  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  be  the  first  to  inform  you. 
Mr.  Brithwood,  I  have  the  honor  of  bearing  a  message  to  you 
from  your  cousin — Miss  Ursula  March." 

"She's  nothing  to  me — I  never  wish  to  see  her  face  again, 
the — the  vixen!" 

"You  will  be  kind  enough,  if  you  please,  to  avoid  all  such 
epithets;  at  least,  in  my  hearing." 

"Your  hearing!     And  pray  who  are  you,  sir?" 

"You  know  quite  well  who  I  am." 

"Oh,  yes!  And  how  goes  the  tanning?  Any  offers  in  the 
horse-flesh  line?  Always  happy  to  meet  you  in  the  way  of 
business.  But  what  can  you  possibly  have  to  do  with  me,  or 
with  any  member  of  my  family?" 

John  bit  his  lip;  the  'squire's  manner  was  extremely  galling; 
more  so,  perhaps,  in  its  outside  civility  than  any  gross  rude- 
ness. 

"Mr.  Brithwood,  I  was  not  speaking  of  myself,  but  of  the 
lady  whose  message  I  have  the  honor  to  bring  you." 

"That  lady,  sir,  has  chosen  to  put  herself  away  from  her 
family,  and  her  family  can  hold  no  further  intercourse  with 
her,"  said  the  'squire,  loftily. 

"I  am  aware  of  that,"  was  the  reply,  with  at  least  equal 
hauteur. 

"Are  you?  And  pray  what  right  may  you  have  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  Miss  March's  private  concerns?" 

"The  right — which,  indeed,  was  the  purport  of  her  message 
to  you — that  in  a  few  months  I  shall  become  her  husband." 

John  said  this  very  quietly;  so  quietly  that,  at  first,  the 
'squire  seemed  hardly  to  credit  his  senses.  At  last  he  burst 
into  a  horse-laugh. 

"Well,  that  is  the  best  joke  I  ever  did  hear!" 

"Pardon  me,  I  am  perfectly  serious." 

"Bah!  how  much  money  do  you  want,  fellow?  A  pretty 
tale!  you'll  not  get  me  to  believe  it — ha!  ha!  She  wouldn't 
be  so  mad.  To  be  sure,  women  have  their  fancies,  as  we 
know,  and  you're  a  likely  young  fellow  enough;  but  to  marry 
you " 


202  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

John  sprang  up,  his  whole  frame  quivering  with  fury. 
"Take  care,  sir!  take  care  how  you  insult  my  wife!" 

He  stood  over  the  wretch — the  cowardly,  shrinking  wretch; 
he  did  not  touch  him,  but  he  stood  over  him  till,  terrified  out 
of  his  life,  Eichard  Brithwood  gasped  out  some  apology. 

"Sit  down — pray  sit  down  again.  Let  us  proceed  in  our 
business." 

John  Halifax  sat  down. 

"So — my  cousin  is  your  wife,  I  think  you  were  saying?" 

"She  will  be,  some  months  hence.  We  were  engaged  a 
week  ago,  with  the  full  knowledge  and  consent  of  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Jessop,  her  nearest  friends." 

"And  of  yours?"  asked  Mr.  Brithwood,  with  as  much  sar- 
casm as  his  blunt  wits  could  furnish  him. 

"I  have  no  relatives." 

"So  I  always  understood.  And  that  being  the  case,  may 
I  ask  the  meaning  of  this  visit?  Where  are  your  lawyers, 
your  marriage  settlements,  hey?  I  say,  young  man — ha!  ha! 
I  should  like  to  know  what  you  can  possibly  want  with  me, 
Miss  March's  trustee?" 

"Nothing  whatever.  Miss  March,  as  you  are  aware,  is,  by 
her  father's  will,  left  perfectly  free  in  her  choice  of  marriage; 
and  she  has  chosen.  But  since,  under  certain  circumstances, 
I  wish  to  act  with  perfect  openness,  I  came  to  tell  you,  as  her 
cousin  and  the  executor  of  this  will,  that  she  is  about  to  be- 
come my  wife." 

And  he  lingered  over  that  name,  as  if  its  very  utterance 
strengthened  and  calmed  him. 

"May  I  inquire  into  those  ' certain  circumstances?' "  asked 
the  other,  still  derisively. 

"You  know  them  already.  Miss  March  has  a  fortune  and  I 
have  none;  and  though  I  wish  that  difference  were  on  the 
other  side — though  it  might  and  did  hinder  me  from  seeking 
her — yet,  now  she  is  sought  and  won,  it  shall  not  hinder  my 
marrying  her." 

"Likely  not,"  sneered  Mr.  Brithwood. 

John's  passion  was  rising  again. 

"I  repeat,  it  shall  not  hinder  me.  The  world  may  say  what 
it  chooses;  we  follow  a  higher  law  than  the  world — she  and  I. 
She  knows  me;  am  I  to  be  afraid  to  trust  her?  Am  I  to  be 
such  a  coward  as  not  to  dare  to  marry  the  woman  I  love,  be- 
cause the  world  might  say  I  married  her  for  her  money?" 

He  stood,  his  clinched  hand  resting  on  the  table,  looking 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  203 

full  into  Richard  Brithwood's  face.  The  'squire  sat  dum- 
founded  at  the  young  man's  vehemence. 

"Your  pardon/'  John  added,  more  calmly.  "Perhaps  I 
owe  her  some  pardon,  too,  for  bringing  her  name  thus  into 
discussion;  but  I  wished  to  have  everything  clear  between  my- 
self and  you,  her  nearest  relative.  You  now  know  exactly 
how  the  matter  stands.  I  will  detain  you  no  longer — I  have 
nothing  more  to  say." 

"But  I  have!"  roared  out  the  'squire;  at  length,  recovering 
himself,  seeing  his  opponent  had  quitted  the  field.  "Stop  a 
minute." 

John  paused  at  the  door. 

"Tell  Ursula  March  she  may  marry  you,  or  any  other  vaga- 
bond she  pleases — it's  no  business  of  mine.  But  her  fortune 
is  my  business,  and  it's  in  my  hands,  too.  Might's  right,  and 
possession's  nine-tentks  of  the  law.  Not  one  penny  shall  she 
get  out  of  my  fingers  as  long  as  I  can  keep  hold  of  it." 

John  bowed,  his  hand  still  on  the  door.  "As  you  please, 
Mr.  Brithwood.  That  was  not  the  subject  of  our  interview. 
Good-morning." 

And  we  were  away. 

Recrossing  the  iron  gates  and  out  into  the  open  road,  John 
breathed  freely. 

"That's  over— all  is  well." 

"Do  you  think  what  he  threatened  is  true?     Can  he  do  it?" 

"Very  likely;  don't  let  us  talk  about  that."  And  he  walked 
on  lightly,  as  if  a  load  were  taken  off  his  mind,  and  body  and 
soul  leaped  up  to  meet  the  glory  of  the  summer  sunshine,  the 
freshness  of  the  summer  air. 

"Oh  what  a  day  this  is!  after  the  rain,  too!  .How  ehe  will 
enjoy  it!" 

And  coming  home  through  Norton  Bury,  we  met  her,  walk- 
ing with  Mrs.  Jessop.  No  need  to  dread  that  meeting  now. 

Yet  she  looked  up,  questioning,  through  her  blushes.  Of 
course  he  had  told  her  where  we  were  going  to-day:  her  who 
had  a  right  to  know  every  one  of  his  concerns  now. 

"Yes,  dear,  all  is  quite  right.     Do  not  be  afraid." 

Afraid,  indeed!  Not  the  least  fear  was  in  those  clear  eyes. 
Nothing  but  perfect  content — perfect  trust. 

John  drew  her  arm  through  his.  "Come,  we  need  not 
mind  Norton  Bury  now,"  he  said,  smiling. 

So  they  two  walked  forward,  talking,  as  we  could  see,  earn- 


204  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

estly  and  rather  seriously  to  one  another;  while  Mrs.  Jessop 
and  I  followed  behind. 

"Bless  their  dear  hearts!"  said  the  old  lady,  as  she  sat  rest- 
ing on  the  stile  of  a  bean-field.  "Well,  we  have  all  been 
young  once." 

Not  all,  good  Mrs.  Jessop,  thought  I;  not  all. 

Yet,  surely  it  was  most  pleasant  to  see  them,  as  it  is  to  see 
all  true-lovers — young  lovers,  too,  in  the  morning  of  their 
days.  Pleasant  to  see  written  on  every  line  of  their  happy 
faces  the  blessedness  of  Nature's  law  of  love — love  begun  in 
youth-time,  sincere  and  pure,  free  from  all  sentimental  shams, 
or  follies,  or  shames — love  mutually  plighted,  the  next  strong- 
est bond  to  that  in  which  it  will  end,  and  is  meant  to  end — 
God's  holy  ordinance  of  marriage. 

We  came  back  across  the  fields  to  tea  at  Mrs.  Jessop's.  It 
was  John's  custom  to  go  there  almost  every  evening;  though 
certainly  he  could  not  be  said  to  "go  a-courting."  Nothing 
could  be  more  unlike  it  than  his  demeanor,  or  indeed  the  de- 
meanor of  both.  They  were  very  quiet  lovers,  never  making 
much  of  one  another  "before  folk."  No  whispering  in  cor- 
ners, or  stealing  away  down  garden-walks.  No  public  show 
of  caresses — caresses  whose  very  sweetness  must  consist  in 
their  entire  sacredness;  at  least,  I  should  think  so.  No  co- 
quettish exactions,  no  testing  of  cither's  power  over  the  other, 
in  those  perilous  small  quarrels  which  may  be  the  renewal  of 
passion,  but  are  the  death  of  true  love. 

No,  our  young  couple  were  well-behaved  always.  She  sat 
at  her  work,  and  he  made  himself  generally  pleasant,  falling  in 
kindly  to  the  Jessops'  household  ways.  But  whatever  he  was 
about,  at  Ursula's  lightest  movement,  at  the  least  sound  of  h  er 
voice,  I  could  see  him  lift  a  quiet  glance,  as  if  always  conscious 
of  her  presence;  she  who  was  the  delight  of  his  eyes. 

To-night,  more  than  ever  before,  this  soft,  invisible  link 
seemed  to  be  drawn  closer  between  them,  though  they  spoke 
little  together,  and  even  sat  at  opposite  sides  of  the  table;  but 
whenever  their  looks  met,  one  could  trace  a  soft,  smiling  inter- 
change, full  of  trust,  and  peace,  and  joy.  He  had  evidently 
told  her  all  that  had  happened  to-day,  and  she  was  satisfied. 

More,  perhaps,  than  I  was;  for  I  knew  how  little  John 
would  have  to  live  upon  besides  what  means  his  wife  brought 
him;  but  that  was  their  own  affair,  and  I  had  no  business  to 
make  public  my  doubts  or  fears. 

We  all  sat  round  the  tea-table,  talking  gayly  together,  and 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  205 

then  John  left  us,  reluctantly  enough;  but  he  always  made  a 
point  of  going  to  the  tan-yard  for  an  hour  or  two,  in  my  fath- 
er's stead,  every  evening.  Ursula  let  him  out  at  the  front  door; 
this  was  her  right,  silently  claimed,  which  nobody  either  jested 
at  or  interfered  with. 

When  she  returned,  and  perhaps  she  had  been  away  a  min- 
ute or  two  longer  than  was  absolutely  necessary,  there  was  a 
wonderful  brightness  on  her  young  face;  though  she  listened 
with  a  degree  of  attention  most  creditable  in  its  gravity  to  a 
long  dissertation  of  Mrs.  Jessop's  on  the  best  and  cheapest  way 
of  making  jam  and  pickles. 

"You  know,  my  dear,  you  ought  to  begin  and  learn  all  about 
such  things  now." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  March,  with  a  little  droop  of  the  head. 

"I  assure  you" — turning  to  me — "she  comes  every  day  into 
the  kitchen — never  mind,  my  dear,  one  can  say  anything  to 
Mr.  Fletcher.  And  what  lady  need  be  ashamed  of  knowing 
how  a  dinner  is  cooked  and  a  household  kept  in  order?" 

"Nay,  she  should  rather  be  proud;  I  know  John  thinks  so." 

At  this  answer  of  mine  Ursula  half-smiled;  but  there  was  a 
color  in  her  cheek  and  a  thoughtfulness  in  her  eyes  deeper 
than  any  that  our  conversation  warranted  or  occasioned.  •  I 
was  planning  how  to  divert  Mrs.  Jessop  from  the  subject, 
when  it  was  broken  at  once  by  a  sudden  entrance,  which 
startled  us  all  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"Stole  away!  stole  away!  as  my  husband  would  say.  Here 
have  I  come  in  the  dusk,  all  through  the  streets,  to  Dr.  Jes- 
sop's very  door.  How  is  she — where  is  she,  ma  petite?" 

"Caroline!" 

"Ah,  come  forward.     I  haven't  seen  you  for  an  age." 

And  Lady  Caroline  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks  in  her  lively, 
French  fashion,  which  Ursula  received  patiently  and  returned 
— no,  I  will  not  be  certain  whether  she  returned  it  or  not. 

"Pardon — how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Jessop,  my  dear  woman? 
What  trouble  I  have  had  in  coming!  Are  you  not  glad  to  see 
me,  Ursula?" 

"Yes,  very."  In  that  sincere  voice  which  never  either  fal- 
sified or  exaggerated  a  syllable. 

"Did  you  ever  expect  to  see  me  again?" 

"No,  certainly  I  did  not.  And  I  would  almost  rather  not 
see  you  now,  if " 

"Richard  Brithwood  did  not  approve  of  it?    Bah!  what 


206  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

notions  you  always  had  of  marital  supremacy.  So,  ma  chere, 
you  are  going  to  be  married  yourself,  I  hear?" 

"Yes." 

"Why,  how  quietly  you  seem  to  take  it!  The  news  perfectly 
electrified  me  this  morning.  I  always  said  that  young  man 
was  'un  heros  de  romans!"  Ma  foil  this  is  the  prettiest  little 
episode  I  ever  heard  of.  Just  King  Cophetua  and  the  beggar- 
maid — only  reversed.  How  do  vou  feel,  my  Queen  Cophe- 
tua?" 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Caroline." 

"Neither  should  I  you,  for  the  tale  seems  incredible.  Only 
you  gave  me  such  an  honest  'yes,'  and  I  know  you  never  tell 
even  white  lies.  But  it  can't  be  true;  at  least,  not  certain.  A 
little  affaire  de  coeur,  maybe — ah!  I  had  several  before  I 
was  twenty — very  pleasant,  chivalrous,  romantic,  and  all  that; 
and  such  a  brave  young  fellow,  too!  Helas!  love  is  sweet  at 
your  age!" — with  a  little  sigh — "but  marriage!  My  dear 
child,  you  are  not  surely  promised  to  this  youth?" 

"I  am." 

"How  sharply  you  say  it.  Nay,  don't  be  angry.  I  liked 
him  greatly.  A  very  pretty  fellow.  But  then  he  belongs  to 
the  people." 

"So  do  I." 

"Naughty  child,  you  will  not  comprehend  me.  I  mean  the 
lower  orders,  the  bourgeoisie.  My  husband  says  he  is  a  tan- 
ner's 'prentice-boy." 

"He  was  an  apprentice;  he  is  now  partner  in  Mr.  Fletcher's 
tan-yard." 

"That  is  nearly  as  bad.  And  so  you  are  actually  going  to 
marry  a  tanner!" 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Halifax.  We  will,  if  you  please, 
cease  to  discuss  him,  Lady  Caroline." 

"La  belle  sauvage!"  laughed  the  lady;  and,  in  the  dusk,  I 
fancied  I  saw  her  reach  over  to  pat  Ursula's  hand  in  her  care- 
less pretty  way.  "Nay;  I  meant  no  harm." 

"I  am  sure  you  did  not;  but  we  will  change  the  subject." 

"Not  at  all.  I  came  to  talk  about  it.  I  couldn't  sleep  till 
I  had.  Je  t'aime  Men,  iu  lasais,  ma  petite  Ursula" 

"Thank  you,"  said  Ursula  gently. 

"And  I  would  like  well  to  see  you  married.  Truly,  we  wo- 
men must  marry  or  be  nothing  at  all.  But  as  to  marrying  for 
love,  as  we  used  to  think  of,  and  as  charming  poets  make  be- 
lieve— my  dear,  nowadays,  nous  avons  change  tout  cela." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  207 

Ursula  replied  nothing. 

"I  suppose  my  young  friend,  the  bourgeois,  is  very  much  in 
love  with  you?  With  'les  beaux  yeux  de  votre  cassette,'  Eich- 
ard  swears;  but  I  know  better.  What  of  that?  All  men  say 
they  love  one;  but  it  will  not  last.  It  burns  itself  out.  It  will 
be  over  in  a  year,  as  we  wives  all  know.  Do  we  not,  Mrs.  Jes- 
sop?  Ah!  she  is  gone  away." 

Probably  they  thought  I  was  away,  too,  or  else  they  took  no 
notice  of  me,  and  went  talking  on. 

"Jane  would  not  have  agreed  with  you,  Cousin  Caroline; 
vshe  loved  her  husband  very  dearly  when  she  was  a  girl.  They 
were  poor,  and  he  was  afraid  to  marry;  so  he  let  her  go.  That 
was  wrong,  I  think." 

"How  wise  we  are  growing  in  these  things  now!"  laughed 
Lady  Caroline.  "But  come,  I  am  not  interested  in  old  turtle- 
doves. Say  about  yourself." 

"I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

"Nothing  more?  Mon  Dieu!  are  you  aware  that  Eichard 
is  furious;  that  he  vows  he  will  keep  every  sou  he  has  of  yours 
— law  or  no  law — for  as  long  as  ever  he  can?  He  declared  so 
this  morning.  Did  young  Halifax  tell  you?" 

"Mr.  Halifax  has  told  me." 

"  'Mr.  Halifax!'  how  proudly  she  says  it!  And  are  you  still 
going  to  be  married  to  him?" 

"Yes." 

"What!  a  bourgeois,  a  tradesman?  with  no  more  money  than 
those  sort  of  people  usually  have,  I  believe.  You,  who  have 
had  all  sorts  of  comforts,  have  always  lived  as  a  gentlewoman. 
Truly,  though  I  adore  a  love-marriage  in  theory,  practically  I 
think  you  are  quite  mad — quite  mad,  my  dear." 

"Do  you?" 

"And  he,  too.  Verily,  what  men  are!  Especially  men  in 
love.  All  selfish  together." 

"Caroline!" 

"Isn't  it  selfish  to  drag  a  pretty  creature  down  and  make 
her  a  drudge,  a  slave,  a  mere  poor  man's  wife?" 

"She  is  proud  of  being  such!"  burst  in  the  indignant  young 
voice.  "Lady  Caroline,  you  may  say  what  you  like  to  me; 
you  were  kind  always,  and  I  was  fond  of  you;  but  you  shall  not 
say  a  word  against  Mr.  Halifax.  You  do  not  know  him — how 
could  you?" 

"And  you  do?  Ah!  ma  petite,  we  all  think  that,  till  we 
find  out  to  the  contrary.  And  so  he  urges  you  to  be  married 


208  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

at  once,  rich  or  poor,  at  all  risks,  at  all  costs?  How  lover-like, 
how  like  a  man!  I  guess  it  all.  Half -beseeches,  half -per- 
suades  " 

"He  does  not!"  And  the  girl's  voice  was  sharp  with  pain. 
"I  would  not  have  told  you,  but  I  must,  for  his  sake.  He 
asked  me  this  afternoon  if  I  was  afraid  of  being  poor,  if  I 
would  like  to  wait  and  let  him  work  hard  alone  till  he  could 
give  me  a  home  like  that  I  was  born  to?  He  did,  Caroline." 

"And  you  answered " 

"No — a  thousand  times,  no!  He  will  have  a  hard  battle  to 
fight — would  I  let  him  fight  it  alone,  when  I  can  help  him — 
when  he  says  I  can?" 

"Ah,  child!  you  that  know  nothing  of  poverty,  how  can  you 
bear  it?" 

"I  will  try." 

"You  that  never  ruled  a  house  in  your  life " 

"I  can  learn." 

"del!  'tis  wonderful!  Ana  ihis  young  man  nas  no  friends, 
no  connections,  no  fortune!  only  himself." 

"Only  himself,**  said  Ursula,  with  a  proud  contempt. 

"Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear,  why  you  marry  him?" 

"Because" — and  Ursula  spoke  in  low  tones,  that  seemed 
wrung  out  of  her  almost  against  her  will — "because  I  honor 
him,  because  I  trust  him;  and,  young  as  I  am,  I  have  seen 
enough  of  the  world  to  be  thankful  that  there  is  in  it  one  man 
whom  I  can  trust,  can  honor,  entirely.  Also — though  I  am 
often  ashamed  lest  this  be  selfish — because  when  I  was  in 
trouble  he  helped  me;  when  I  was  misjudged  he  believed  in 
me;  when  I  was  sad  and  desolate,  he  loved  me.  And  I  am 
proud  of  his  love — I  glory  in  it.  No  one  shall  take  it  from  me 
— no  one  will — no  one  can,  unless  I  cease  to  deserve  it." 

Lady  Caroline  was  silent.  Despite  her  will,  you  might  hear 
a  sigh  breaking  from  some  deep  corner  of  that  light,  frivolous 
heart. 

"B-ien!  chacun  a  son  gotit!  But  you  have  never  stated  one 
trifle — not  unnecessary,  perhaps,  though  most  married  folk 
get  on  quite  well  without  it.  'Honor,'  'trust,' — pshaw!  My 
child,  do  you  love  Mr.  Halifax?" 

No  answer. 

"ISTay,  why  be  shy?  In  England,  they  say,  and  among  the 
people — no  offense,  ma  petite — one  does  sometimes  happen 
to  care  for  the  man  one  "marries.  Tell  me,  for  I  must  be  gone, 
do  you  love  him?  one  word  whether  or  no?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  209 

Just  then  the  light  coming  in,  showed  Ursula's  face,  beau- 
tiful with  more  than  happiness,  uplifted  even  with  a  religious 
thankfulness,  as  she  said  simply: 

"John  knows." 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

In  the  late  autumn,  John  married  Ursula  March.  He  was 
twenty-one,  and  she  eighteen.  It  was  very  young — too  young, 
perhaps,  prudent  folk  might  say;  and  yet  sometimes  I  think  a 
double  blessing  falls  on  unions  like  this.  A  right  and  holy 
marriage,  a  true  love-marriage,  be  it  early  or  late,  is — must  be 
— sanctified  and  happy;  yet  those  have  the  best  chance  of  hap- 
piness, who,  meeting  on  the  very  threshold  of  life,  enter  upon 
its  duties  together;  with  free,  fresh  hearts,  easily  molded  the 
one  to  the  other,  rich  in  all  the  riches  of  youth,  acute  to  enjoy, 
brave  and  hopeful  to  endure. 

Such  were  these  two — God  bless  them! 

They  were  married  quite  privately,  neither  having  any  near 
kindred.  Besides,  John  held  strongly  the  opinion  that  so 
solemn  a  festival  as  marriage  is  only  desecrated  by  outward 
show.  And  so,  one  golden  autumn  morning,  Ursula  walked 
quietly  up  the  Abbey  aisle,  in  her  plain  white  muslin  gown; 
and  John  and  she  plighted  their  faithful  vows,  no  one  being 
present  except  the  Jessops  and  I.  They  then  went  away  for 
a  brief  holiday — went  away  without  either  pomp  or  tears,  en- 
tirely happy — husband  and  wife  together. 

When  I  came  home,  and  said  what  had  happened,  my  good 
father  seemed  little  surprised.  He  had  expressly  desired  not 
to  be  told  anything  of  the  wedding  till  all  was  over — he  hated 
marriages. 

"But  since  it  is  done,  maybe  'tis  as  well/'  said  he,  grimly. 
"She  seems  a  kindly  young  thing;  wise,  even — for  a  woman." 

"And  pleasant,  too,  father?" 

"Ay,  but  favor  is  deceitful  and  beauty  vain.  So  the  lad's 
gone;"  and  he  looked  round,  as  if  missing  John,  who  had  lived 
in  our  house  eyer  since  his  illness.  "I  thought  as  much,  when 
he  bade  me  good-night,  and  asked  my  leave  to  take  a  journey. 
So  he's  married  and  gone!  Come,  Phineas,  sit  thee  down  by 
thy  old  father:  I  am  glad  thee  wilt  always  remain  a  bachelor." 

We  settled  ourselves,  my  father  and  I;  and  while  the  old 
man  smoked  his  meditative  pipe,  I  sat  thinking  of  the  winter 


210  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

evenings  when  we  two  lads  had  read  by  the  fireside;  the  sum- 
mer days  when  we  had  lounged  on  the  garden-wall.  He  was 
a  married  man  now,  the  head  of  a  household;  others  had  a 
right — the  first,  best,  holiest  right — to  the  love  that  used  to 
be  all  mine;  and  though  it  was  a  marriage  entirely  happy  and 
hopeful,  though  all  that  day  and  every  day  I  rejoiced  both 
with  and  for  my  brother,  still  it  was  rather  sad  to  miss  him 
from  our  house,  to  feel  that  his  boyish  days  were  quite  over — 
that  his  boyish  place  would  know  him  no  more. 

But,  of  course,  I  had  fully  overcome,  or  at  least  suppressed 
this  feeling,  when,  John  having  brought  his  wife  home,  I  went 
to  see  them  in  their  own  house. 

I  had  seen  it  once  before;  it  was  an  old  dwelling-house 
which  my  father  bought  with  the  flour-mill,  situated  in  the 
middle  of  the  town,  the  front  windows  looking  on  the  street, 
the  desolate  garden  behind  shut  in  by  four  brick  walls.  A 
most  unbridal-like  abode.  I  feared  they  would  find  it  so, 
even  though  John  had  been  busy  there  the  last  two  months,  in 
early  mornings  and  late  evenings,  keeping  a  comical  secrecy 
over  the  matter,  as  if  he  were  jealous  that  any  one  but  himself 
should  lend  an  eye,  or  put  a  finger  to  the  dear  task  of  making 
ready  for  his  young  wife. 

There  could  not  be  greater  preparations,  I  kneAV,  for  the 
third  of  my  father's  business  promised  but  a  small  income. 
Yet  the  gloomy  outside  being  once  passed,  the  house  looked 
wonderfully  bright  and  clean;  the  walls  and  doors  newly  paint- 
ed and  delicately  stencilled.  ("Master  did  all  that  himsel'," 
observed  the  proud  little  handmaid,  Jenny — Jem  \Vatkins' 
sweetheart.  I  had  begged  the  place  for  her  myself  of  Mistress 
Ursula.)  Though  only  a  few  rooms  were  furnished,  and  that 
very  simply,  almost  poorly,  all  was  done  with  taste  and  care; 
the  colors  were  mingled,  the  wood-work  graceful  and  good. 

They  were  out  gardening,  John  Halifax  and  his  wife. 

Ay,  his  wife;  he  was  a  husband  now.  They  looked  so  young, 
both  of  them,  he  kneeling,  planting  box-edging,  she  standing 
by  him  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder — the  hand  with  the 
ring  on  it.  He  was  laughing  at  something  she  had  said,  thy 
very  laugh  of  old,  David!  Neither  heard  me  come  till  I  stood 
close  by. 

"Phineas,  welcome,  welcome!"  He  wrung  my  hand  fer- 
vently many  times;  so  did  Ursula,  blushing  rosy  red.  They 
both  called  me  "brother,"  and  both  were  as  fond  and  warm  as 
any  brother  and  sister  could  be. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  211 

£  few  minutes  after  Ursula — "Mrs.  Halifax,"  as  I  said  I 
ought  to  call  her  now — slipped  away  into  the  house,  and  John 
and  I  were  left  together.  He  glanced  after  his  wife  till  she 
was  out  of  sight,  played  with  the  spade,  threw  it  down,  placed 
his  two  hands  on  my  shoulders,  and  looked  hard  in  my  face. 
He  was  trembling  with  deep  emotion. 

"Art  thou  happy,  David?" 

"Ay,  lad,  almost  afraid  of  my  happiness.  God  make  me 
worthy  of  it  and  of  her!" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  upward;  there  was  in  them  a  new  look, 
sweet  and  solemn — a  look  which  expressed  the  satisfied  con- 
tent of  a  life  now  rounded  and  completed  by  that  other  dear 
life  which  it  had  received  into  and  united  with  its  own,  mak- 
ing a  full  and  perfect  whole,  which,  however  kindly  and  fond- 
ly it  may  look  on  friends  and  kindred  outside,  has  no  absolute 
need  of  any,  but  is  complete  in  and  sufficient  to  itself,  as  true 
marriage  should  be.  A  look,  unconsciously  fulfilling  the  law 
— God's  own  law — that  a  man  shall  leave  father  and  mother, 
brethren  and  companions,  and  shall  cleave  unto  his  wife,  and 
"they  two  shall  become  one  flesh." 

And  although  I  rejoiced  in  his  joy,  still  I  felt  half-sadly, 
for  a  moment,  the  vague,  fine  line  of  division  which  was  thus 
for  evermore  drawn  between  him  and  me  of  no  fault  on  either 
side,  and  of  which  he  himself  was  unaware.  It  was  but  the 
right  and  natural  law  of  things,  the  difference  between  the 
married  and  unmarried,  which  only  the  latter  feel — which, 
perhaps,  the  Divine  One  meant  them  to  feel;  that  out  of  their 
great  solitude  of  this  world  may  grow  a  little  inner  Eden, 
where  they  may  hear  His  voice,  "walking  in  the  garden  in  the 
cool  of  the  day." 

We  went  round  John's  garden;  there  was  nothing  Eden-like 
about  it,  being  somewhat  of  a  waste  still,  divided  between  an- 
cient cabbage-beds,  empty  flower-beds,  and  great  old  orchard- 
trees,  very  thinly  laden  with  fruit. 

"We'll  make  them  better  next  year,"  said  John,  hopefully. 
"We  may  have  a  very  decent  garden  here  in  time."  He  looked 
round  his  little  domain  with  the  eye  of  a  master,  and  put  his 
arm,  half -proudly,  half -shyly,  round  his  wife's  shoulders;  she 
had  sidled  up  to  him,  ostensibly  bringing  him  a  letter,  though 
possibly  only  for  an  excuse,  because  in  those  sweet  early  days 
they  naturally  liked  to  be  in  each  other's  sight  continually. 
It  was  very  beautiful  to  see  what  a  demure,  soft,  meek,  matron- 


212  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

liness  had  come  over  the  high  spirit  of  the  "nut-browne 
mayde." 

"May  I  read?"  she  said,  peeping  oyer  him. 

"Of  course  you  may,  little  one."  A  comical  pet-name  for 
him  to  give  her,  who  was  anything  but  small.  I  could  have 
smiled,  remembering  the  time  when  John  Halifax  bowed  to 
the  stately  and  dignified  young  gentlewoman  who  stood  at  Mrs. 
Tod's  door.  To  think  he  should  ever  have  come  to  call  Miss 
Ursula  March  "little  one!" 

But  this  was  not  exactly  a  time  for  jesting,  since,  on  reading 
the  letter,  I  saw  the  young  wife  flush  an  angry  red,  then  look 
grave.  Until  John,  crumbling  up  the  paper,  and  dropping  it 
almost  with  a  boyish  frolic  into  the  middle  of  a  large  rosemary 
bush,  took  his  wife  by  both  her  hands,  and  gazed  down  into 
her  troubled  face,  smiling. 

"You  surely  don't  mind  this,  love?  We  knew  it  all  before. 
It  can  make  no  possible  difference." 

"No!  But  it  is  so  wrong — so  unjust.  I  never  believed  he 
dared  do  it — to  you." 

"Hear  her,  Phineas!  She  thinks  nobody  dare  do  anything 
ill  to  her  husband — not  even  Eichard  Brithwood." 

"He  is  a " 

"Hush,  dear!  we  will  not  talk  about  him;  since,  for  all  his 
threats,  he  can  do  us  no  harm;  and,  poor  man!  he  never  will 
be  half  as  happy  as  we." 

That  was  true.  So  Mr.  Brithwood's  insulting  letter  was 
left  to  molder  harmlessly  away  in  the  rosemary  bush  and  we 
all  walked  up  and  down  the  garden,  talking  over  a  thousand 
plans  for  making  ends  meet  in  that  little  household.  To  their 
young  hopefulness  even  poverty  itself  became  a  jest,  and  was 
met  cheerfully,  like  an  honest,  hard-featured,  hard-handed 
friend,  whose  rough  face  was  often  kindly,  and  whose  harsh 
grasp  made  one  feel  the  strength  of  one's  own. 

"We  mean,"  John  said,  gayly,  "to  be  two  living  Essays  on 
the  Advantages  of  Poverty.  We  are  not  going  to  be  afraid  of 
it,  or  ashamed  of  it.  We  don't  care  who  knows  it.  We  con- 
sider that  our  respectability  lies  solely  in  our  two  selves." 

"But  our  neighbors?" 

"Our  neighbors  may  think  of  us  exactly  what  they  like.  Half 
the  sting  of  poverty  is  gone  when  one  keeps  house  for  one's 
own  comfort  and  not  for  the  comments  of  one's  neighbors." 

"I  should  think  not,"  Ursula  cried,  tossing  back  her  head 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  213 

in  merry  defiance.     "Besides,  we  are  young,  we  have  few 
wants,  and  we  can  easily  reduce  our  wants  to  our  havings." 

"And  no  more  gray  silk  gowns,"  said  her  husband,  half- 
fondly,  half -sadly. 

"You  will  not  he  so  rude  as  to  say  I  shall  not  look  equally 
well  in  a  cotton  one?  And  as  for  being  as  happy  in  it — why  I 
know  best." 

He  smiled  at  her  once  more — that  tender,  manly  smile, 
which  made  all  soft  and  lustrous  the  inmost  depths  of  his 
brown  eyes;  truly  no  woman  need  be  afraid,  with  a  smile  like 
that  to  be  the  strength,  the  guidance,  the  sunshine  of  her 
home. 

We  wtent  in,  and  the  young  mistress  showed  us  her  new 
house;  we  investigated  and  admired  all,  down  to  the  very 
scullery;  then  we  adjourned  to  the  sitting-room — the  only  one 
— and,  after  tea,  Ursula  arranged  her  books,  some  on  stained 
shelves,  which  she  proudly  informed  me  were  of  John's  own 
making,  and  some  on  an  old  spinnet,  which  he  had  picked  up, 
and  which,  he  said,  was  of  no  other  use  than  to  hold  books, 
since  she  was  not  an  accomplished  young  lady,  and  could  nei- 
ther sing  nor  play. 

"But  you  don't  dislike  the  spinnet,  Ursula?  It  caught  my 
fancy.  Do  you  know  I  have  a  faint  remembrance  that  once, 
on  such  a  thing  as  this,  my  mother  used  to  play?" 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice;  Ursula  stole  up  to  him  with  a  fond, 
awed  look. 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  your  mother?" 
"Dear,  I  had  little  to  tell.     Long  ago  you  knew  who  you 
were  going  to  marry — John  Halifax,  who  had  no  friends,  no 
kindred,  whose  parents  left  him  nothing  but  his  name." 
"And  you  cannot  remember  them?" 
"My  father,  not  at  all;  my  mother,  very  little." 
"And  have  you  nothing  belonging  to  them?" 
"Only  one  thing.     Should  you  like  to  see  it?" 
"Very  much."     She  still  spoke  slowly  and  with  slight  hesi- 
tation.    "It  was  hard  for  him  not  to  have  known  his  parents," 
she  added,  when  John  had  left  the  room.     "I  should  like  to 

have  known  them,  too.     But  still — when  I  know  him " 

She  smiled,  tossed  back  the  coronet  of  curls  from  her  fore- 
head— her  proud,  pure  forehead,  that  would  have  worn  a  coro- 
net of  jewels  more  meekly  than  it  now  wore  the  unadorned 
honor  of  being  John  Halifax's  wife.  I  wish  he  could  have 
seen  her. 


214  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

That  minute  he  reappeared. 

"Here,  Ursula,  is  all  I  have  of  my  parents.  No  one  has 
seen  it,  except  Phineas  there,  until  now." 

He  held  in  his  hand  the  little  Greek  Testament  which  he 
had  shown  me  years  before.  Carefully,  and  with  the  same 
fond,  reverent  look  as  when  he  was  a  boy,  he  undid  the  case, 
made  of  silk,  with  ribbon  strings — doubtless  a  woman's  work 
— it  must  have  been  his  mother's.  His  wife  touched  it,  softly 
and  tenderly.  He  showed  her  the  fly-leaf;  she  looked  over  the 
inscription,  and  then  repeated  it  aloud. 

"  'Guy  Halifax,  gentleman/     I  thought — I  thought — " 

Her  manner  betrayed  a  pleased  surprise;  she  would  not  have 
been  a  woman,  especially  a  woman  reared  in  pride  of  birth, 
not  to  have  felt  and  testified  the  like  pleasure  for  a  moment. 

"You  thought  that  I  was  only  a  laborer's  son;  or — nobody's. 
Well,  does  it  signify?" 

"No,"  she  cried,  as  clinging  round  his  neck  and  throwing 
her  head  back,  she  looked  at  him  with  all  her  heart  in  her 
eyes.  "No,  it  does  not  signify.  Were  your  father  the  king 
on  his  throne,  or  the  beggar  in  the  streets,  it  would  be  all  the 
same  to  me;  you  would  still  be  yourself — my  husband — my 
John  Halifax." 

"God  bless  thee — my  own  wife  that  He  has  given  me!"  John 
murmured,  through  his  close  embrace. 

They  had  altogether  forgotten  any  one's  presence,  dear 
souls!  so  I  kept  them  in  that  happy  oblivion  by  slipping  out  to 
Jenny  in  the  kitchen,  and  planning  with  her  how  we  could  at 
least  spare  Jem  Watkins  two  days  a  week  to  help  in  the  gar- 
den, under  Mr.  Halifax's  orders. 

"Only,  Jenny,"  smiled  I,  with  a  warning  finger,  "no  idling 
and  chattering.  Young  folk  must  work  hard,  if  they  want 
to  come  to  the  happy  ending  of  your  master  and  mistress." 

The  little  maid  grew  the  color  of  her  swain's  pet  peonies, 
and  promised  obedience.  Conscientious  Jem  there  was  no 
fear  of — all  the  rosy-cheeked  damsels  in  Christendom 
would  not  have  turned  him  aside  from  one  iota  of  his  duty  to 
Mr.  Halifax.  Thus  there  was  love  in  the  parlor,  and  love  in 
the  kitchen.  But,  I  verily  believe,  the  young  married  couple 
were  served  all  the  better  for  their  kindness  and  sympathy  to 
the  humble  pair  of  sweethearts  in  the  rank  below  them. 

John  walked  home  with  me — a  pleasure  I  had  hardly  ex- 
pected, but  which  was  insisted  upon  both  by  him  and  Ursula. 
For  from  the  very  first  of  her  betrothal,  there  had  been  a  thor- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  215 

ough  brother-and-sisterly  bond  established  between  her  and 
me.  Her  womanly,  generous  nature  would  have  scorned  to 
do  what,  as  I  have  heard,  many  young  wives  do — seek  to  make 
coldness  between  her  husband  and  his  old  friends.  No;  se- 
cure in  her  riches,  in  her  rightful  possession  of  his  whole 
heart,  she  took  into  hers  everything  that  belonged  to  John, 
every  one  he  cared  for;  to  be  forever  held  sacred  and  beloved, 
being  his,  and  therefore  her  own.  Thus,  we  were  the  very 
best  of  friends,  my  sister  Ursula  and  me. 

John  and  I  talked  a  little  about  her,  of  her  rosy  looks, 
which  he  hoped  would  not  fade  in  their  town  dwelling,  and  of 
good  Mrs.  Tod's  wonderful  delight  at  seeing  her,  when,  last 
week,  they  had  stayed  two  days  in  the  dear  old  cottage  at  En- 
defley.  But  he  seemed  slow  to  speak  about  his  wife,  or  to 
dilate  on  a  joy  so  new  that  it  was  hardly  to  be  breathed  on, 
lest  it  might  melt  into  air. 

Only  when,  as  we  were  crossing  the  street,  a  fine  equipage 
passed,  he  looked  after  it  with  a  smile. 

"Gray  ponies!  she  is  so  fond  of  long-tailed  gray  ponies. 
Poor  child!  when  shall  I  be  able  to  give  her  a  carriage?  Per- 
haps, some  day — who  knows?" 

He  turned  the  conversation  and  began  telling  me  about  the 
cloth-mill — his  old  place  of  resort;  which  he  had  been  over 
once  again,  when  they  were  at  Eose  Cottage. 

"And  do  you  know,  while  I  was  looking  at  the  machinery, 
a  notion  came  into  my  head  that,  instead  of  that  great  water- 
wheel — you  remember  it — it  might  be  worked  by  steam." 

"What  sort  of  steam?" 

"Phineas,  your  memory  is  no  better,  I  see.  Have  you  for- 
gotten my  telling  you  how,  last  year,  some  Scotch  engineer 
tried  to  move  boats  by  steam  on  the  Forth  and  Clyde  canal? 
Why  should  not  the  same  power  be  turned  to  account  in  a 
cloth-mill?  I  know  it  could;  I  have  got  the  plan  of  the  ma- 
chinery in  my  head  already.  I  made  a  drawing  of  it  last 
night,  and  showed  it  to  Ursula;  and  she  understood  it  di- 
rectly." 

I  smiled. 

"And  I  do  believe,  by  common  patience  and  skill,  a  man 
might  make  his  fortune  with  it  at  those  Enderley  cloth- 
mills." 

"Suppose  you  try!"  I  said,  in  half  jest,  and  was  surprised  to 
see  how  seriously  John  took  it. 

"I  wish  I  could  try;  if  it  were  only  practicable.     Once  or 


216  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

twice  I  have  thought  it  might  be.  The  mill  belongs  to  Lord 
Luxmore.  His  steward  works  it.  Now,  if  one  could  get  to  be 
a  foreman  or  overseer " 

"Try — you  can  do  anything  you  try." 

"No,  I  must  not  think  of  it — she  and  I  have  agreed  that  I 
must  not/'  said  he,  steadily.  "It's  my  weakness — my  hobby, 
you  know.  But  no  hobbies  now.  Above  all,  I  must  not,  for  a 
mere  fancy,  give  up  the  work  that  lies  under  my  hand.  What 
of  the  tan-yard,  Phineas?" 

"My  father  missed  you,  and  grumbled  after  you  a  good  deal. 
He  looks  anxious,  I  think.  He  vexes  himself  more  than  he 
need  about  business." 

"Don't  let  him.  Keep  him  as  much  at  home  as  you  can. 
I'll  manage  the  tan-yard;  you  know — and  he  knows  too — that 
everything  which  can  be  done  for  us  all  I  shall  do." 

I  looked  up,  surprised  at  the  extreme  earnestness  of  his 
manner. 

"Surely,  John " 

"Nay,  there  is  nothing  to  be  uneasy  about — nothing  more 
than  there  has  been  for  this  year  past.  All  trade  is  bad  just 
now.  Never  fear,  we'll  weather  the  storm.  I'm  not  afraid." 

Cheerfully  as  he  spoke,  I  began  to  guess — what  he  already 
must  have  known — that  our  fortunes  were  as  a  slowly  leaking 
ship,  of  which  the  helm  had  slipped  from  my  old  father's 
feeble  hand.  But  John  had  taken  it;  John  stood  firm  at  the 
wheel.  Perhaps,  with  God's  blessing,  he  might  yet  guide  us 
safe  to  land. 

I  had  not  time  to  say  more,  when,  with  its  pretty  gray  po- 
nies, the  curricle  once  more  passed  our  way.  Two  ladies  were 
in  it;  one  leaned  out  and  bowed.  Presently  a  lackey  came  to 
beg  Mr.  Halifax  to  come  and  speak  with  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood. 

"Shall  you  go,  John?" 

"Certainly;  why  not?"  And  he  stepped  forward  to  the  car- 
riage-side. 

"Ah!  delighted  to  see  mon  lean  cousin.  This  is  he,  Em- 
ma," turning  to  the  lady  who  sat  by  her — oh,  what  a  lovely 
face  that  lady  had!  no  wonder  it  drove  men  mad;  ay,  even  that 
brave  man,  in  whose  honest  life  can  be  chronicled  only  this 
one  sin,  of  being  bewitched  by  her. 

John  caught  the  name — perhaps,  too,  he  recognized  the  face 
— it  was  only  too  public,  alas!  His  own  took  a  sternness  such 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  217 

as  I  had  never  before  seen,  and  yet  there  was  a  trace  of  pity  in 
it,  too. 

"You  are  quite  well.  Indeed,  he  looks  so—n'est-ce  pas,  ma 
chere?" 

John  bore  gravely  the  eyes  of  the  two  ladies  fixed  on  him, 
in  rather  too  plain  admiration — very  gravely,  too,  he  bowed. 

"And  what  of  our  young  bride,  our  treasure  that  was  stole 
— nay,  it  was  quite  fair — quite  fair.  How  is  Ursula?" 

"I  thank  you,  Mrs.  Halifax  is  well." 

Lady  Caroline  smiled  at  the  manner,  courteous  through  all 
its  coldness,  which  not  ill  became  the  young  man.  But  she 
would  not  be  repelled. 

"I  am  delighted  to  have  met  you.  Indeed,  we  must  be 
friends.  One's  friends  need  not  always  be  the  same  to  one's 
husband's — eh,  Emma?  You  will  be  enchanted  with  our  fair 
bride.  We  must  both  seize  the  first  opportunity  and  come  as 
disguised  princesses  to  visit  Mrs.  Halifax. 

"Again  let  me  thank  you,  Lady  Caroline.     But " 

"No  'but's.'  I  am  resolved.  Mr.  Brithwood  will  never  find 
it  out.  And  if  he  does — why,  he  may.  I  like  you  both;  I  in- 
tend us  to  be  excellent  friends,  whenever  I  chance  to  be  at 
Xorton  Bury.  Don't  be  proud  and  reject  me,  there's  good 
people — the  only  good  people  I  ever  knew  who  were  not  dis- 
agreeable." 

And  leaning  on  her  large  ermine  muff,  she  looked  right  into 
John's  face,  with  the  winning  sweetness  which  Nature,  not 
courts,  lent  to  those  fair  features — already  beginning  to  fade, 
already  trying  to  hide  by  art  their  painful,  premature  decay. 

John  returned  the  look,  half  sorrowfully;  it  was  so  hard  to 
give  back  harshness  to  kindliness.  But  a  light  laugh  from 
the  other  lady  caught  his  ear,  and  his  hesitation — if  hesitation 
he  had  felt — was  over. 

"No,  Lady  Caroline,  it  cannot  be.  You  will  soon  see  your- 
self that  it  cannot.  Living,  as  we  do,  in  the  same  neighbor- 
hood, we  may  meet  occasionally,  by  chance,  and  always,  I 
hope,  with  kindly  feeling;  but,  under  present  circumstances, 
indeed,  under  any  circumstances,  intimacy  between  your  house 
and  ours  would  be  impossible." 

Lady  Caroline  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  pretty  air  of 
pique.  "As  you  will!  I  never  trouble  myself  to  court  the 
friendship  of  any  one.  Lejeu  ne  vaut  pas  la  chandeUe." 

"Do  not  mistake  me,"  John  said,  earnestly.  "Do  not  sup- 
pose I  am  ungrateful  for  your  former  kindness  to  my  wife;  but 


218  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

the  difference  between  her  and  you — between  your  life  and 
hers — is  so  extreme." 

"  Vraiment!  'with  another  shrug  and  smile — rather  a  bitter 
one. 

"Our  two  paths  lie  wide  apart — wide  as  the  poles;  our  house 
and  our  society  would  not  suit  you;  and  that  my  wife  should 
ever  enter  yours,"  glancing  from  one  to  the  other  of  those  two 
faces,  painted  with  false  roses,  lit  by  false  smiles.  "5So,  Lady 
Caroline,"  he  adder,  firmly,  "it  is  impossible." 

She  looked  mortified  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumed  her 
gayety,  which  nothing  could  ever  banish  long. 

"Hear  him,  Emma!  So  young  and  so  unkindly!  Mais 
nous  verrons.  You  will  change  your  mind.  Au  revoir,  mon 
beau  cousin." 

They  drove  off  quickly,  and  were  gone. 

"John,  what  will  Mrs.  Halifax  say?" 

"My  innocent  girl!  thank  God  she  is  safe  away  from  them 
all — safe  in  a  poor  man's  honest  breast."  He  spoke  with 
much  emotion. 

"Yet  Lady  Caroline " 

"Did  you  see  who  sat  beside  her?" 

"That  beautiful  woman?" 

"Poor  soul!  alas  for  her  beauty!  Phineas,  that  was  Lady 
Hamilton." 

He  said  no  more,  nor  I.  At  my  own  door  he  left  me,  with 
his  old  merry  laugh,  his  old  familiar  grasp  of  my  shoulder. 

"Lad,  take  care  of  thyself,  though  I'm  not  by  to  see.  Re- 
member, I  am  just  as  much  thy  tyrant  as  if  I  were  living  here 
still." 

I  smiled,  and  he  went  his  way  to  his  own  quiet,  blessed, 
married  home. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  winter  and  spring  passed  calmly  by.  I  had  much  ill 
health,  and  could  go  out  very  little;  but  they  came  constantly 
to  me,  John  and  Ursula,  especially  the  latter.  During  this 
illness,  when  I  learned  to  watch  longingly  for  her  kind  face, 
and  listen  for  her  cheerful  voice  talking  pleasantlv  and  sisterly 
beside  my  chair,  she  taught  me  to  give  up  "Mrs.  Halifax"  and 
call  her  Ursula.  It  was  only  by  slow  degrees  I  did  so,  truly; 
for  she  was  not  one  of  those  gentle  creatures  whom,  married 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  219 

or  single,  one  calls  instinctively  by  their  Christian  names.  Her 
manner  in  girlhood  was  not  exactly  either  "meek"  or  "gentle;" 
except  toward  him,  the  only  one  who  ever  ruled  her,  and  to 
whom  she  was,  through  life,  the  meekest  and  tenderest  of 
women.  To  every  one  else  she  comported  herself,  at  least  in 
youth,  with  a  dignity  and  decision — a  certain  stand-off -ishness 
— so  that,  as  I  said,  it  was  not  quite  easy  to  think  of  her  as 
"Ursula."  Afterward,  when  seen  in  the  light  of  g,  new  char- 
acter, for  which  Heaven  destined  and  especially  fitted  her,  and 
in  which  she  appeared  altogether  beautiful — I  began  to  give 
her  another  name — but  it  will  come  by-and-by. 

In  the  long  midsummer  days,  when  our  house  was  very  quiet 
and  rather  dreary,  I  got  into  the  habit  of  creeping  over  to 
John's  home  and  sitting  for  hours  under  the  apple  trees  in  his 
garden.  It  was  now  different  from  the  wilderness  he  found  it; 
the  old  trees  were  pruned  and  tended,  and  young  ones  planted. 
Mrs.  Halifax  called  it  proudly  "'our  orchard,"  though  the  top 
of  the  tallest  sapling  could  be  reached  with  her  hand.  Then, 
in  addition  to  the  indigenous  cabbages,  came  long  rows  of 
white-blossomed  peas,  big-headed  cauliflowers,  and  all  vege- 
tables easy  of  cultivation.  My  father  sent  contributions  from 
his  celebrated  gooseberry  bushes,  and  his  wall  fruit,  the  pride 
of  Norton  Bury;  Mrs.  Jessop  stocked  the  borders  from  her 
great  parterres  of  sweet-scented  common  flowers;  so  that, 
walled  in  as  it  was,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  town  likewise,  it  was 
growing  into  a  very  tolerable  garden.  Just  the  kind  of  garden 
that  I  love — half-trim,  half-wild — fruits,  flowers,  and  vege- 
tables living  in  comfortable  equality  and  fraternity,  none  be- 
ing too  choice  to  be  harmed  by  their  neighbors,  none  esteemed 
too  mean  to  be  restricted  in  their  natural  profusion.  Oh,  dear 
old-fashioned  garden!  full  of  sweet-williams  and  white-nancies, 
and  larkspur  and  London-pride,  and  yard-wide  beds  of  snowy 
saxifrage,  and  tall,  pale  evening  primroses,  and  hollyhocks  six 
or  seven  feet  high,  many-tinted,  from  yellow  to  darkest  ruby- 
color;  while  for  scents,  large  blushing  cabbage-roses,  pinks, 
gillyflowers,  with  here  and  there  a  great  bush  of  southernwood 
or  rosemary,  or  a  border  of  thyme,  or  a  sweetbrier  hedge — a 
pleasant  garden,  where  all  colors  and  perfumes  were  blended 
together;  ay,  even  a  stray  dandelion,  that  stood  boldly  up  in 
his  yellow  waistcoat,  like  a  young  country  bumpkin,  who  feels 
himself  a  decent  lad  in  his  way — or  a  plant  of  wild  marjoram 
that  had  somehow  got  in,  and  kept  meekly  in  the  corner  of  the 
bed,  trying  to  turn  into  a  respectable  cultivated  herb.  Dear  old 


220  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

garden — such  as  one  rarely  sees  nowadays — I  would  give  the 
finest  modern  pleasure-ground  for  the  like  of  thee! 

This  was  what  John's  garden  became;  its  every  inch  and 
every  flower  still  live  in  more  memories  than  mine,  and  will  for 
a  generation  yet;  but  I  am  speaking  of  it  when  it  was  young, 
like  its  gardeners.  These  were  Mrs.  Halifax  and  her  husband, 
Jem  and  Jenny.  The  master  could  not  do  much;  he  had  long, 
long  hours  in  his  business;  but  I  used  to  watch  TJrsula,  morn- 
ing after  morning,  superintending  her  domain,  with  her  faith- 
ful attendant  Jem — Jem  adored  his  "missis."  Or  else,  when 
it  was  hot  noon,  I  used  to  lie  in  their  cool  parlor,  and  listen  to 
her  voice  and  step  about  the  house,  teaching  Jenny,  or  learn- 
ing from  her — for  the  young  gentlewoman  had  much  to  learn, 
and  was  not  ashamed  of  it,  either.  She  laughed  at  her  own 
mistakes,  and  tried  again;  she  never  was  idle  or  dull  for  a  min- 
ute. She  did  a  great  deal  in  the  house  herself.  Often  she 
would  sit  chatting  with  me,  having  on  her  lap  a  coarse  brown 
pan,  shelling  peas,  slicing  beans,  picking  gooseberries;  her 
fingers — Miss  March's  fair  fingers — looking  fairer  for  the  con- 
trast with  their  unaccustomed  work.  Or  else,  in  the  sum- 
mer evenings,  she  would  be  at  the  window  sewing — always  sew- 
ing— but  so  placed,  that  with  one  glance  she  could  see  down 
the  street  where  John  was  coming.  Far,  far  off  she  always 
saw  him,  and  at  the  sight  her  whole  face  would  change  and 
brighten,  like  a  meadow  when  the  sun  comes  out.  Then  she 
ran  to  open  the  door,  and  I  could  hear  his  low  "my  darling!'' 
and  a  long,  long  pause  in  the  hall. 

They  were  very,  very  happy  in  those  early  days — those  quiet 
days  of  poverty;  when  they  visited  nobody,  and  nobody  visited 
them;  when  their  whole  world  was  bounded  by  the  dark  old 
house  and  the  garden,  with  its  four  high  walls. 

One  July  night,  I  remember,  John  and  I  were  walking  up 
and  down  the  paths  by  starlight.  It  was  very  hot  weather, 
inclining  one  to  stay  without  doors  half  the  night.  Ursula 
had  been  with  us  a  good  while,  strolling  about  on  her  hus- 
band's arm;  then  he  had  sent  her  in  to  bed,  and  we  two  re- 
mained out  together. 

How  soft  they  were,  those  faint,  misty,  summer  stars!  what 
a  mysterious,  perfumy  haze  they  let  fall  over  us!  A  haze 
through  which  all  around  seemed  melting  away  in  delicious  in- 
tangible sweetness,  in  which  the  very  sky  above  our  heads— 
the  shining,  world-besprinkled  sky — was  a  thing  felt  rather 
than  seen. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  221 

"How  strange  all  seems!  how  unreal!"  said  John,  in  a  low 
voice,  when  he  had  walked  the  length  of  the  garden  in  silence. 
"Phineas,  how  very  strange  it  seems  I" 

"What  seems?" 

"What? — oh,  everything.  He  hesitated  a  minute.  "No, 
not  everything — but  something  which  to  me  seems  now  to  fill 
and  be  mixed  up  with  all  I  do,  or  think,  or  feel.  Something 
you  do  not  know — but  to-night  Ursula  said  I  might  tell  you." 

Nevertheless  he  was  several  minutes  before  he  told  me. 

"This  pear-tree  is  full  of  fruit — is  it  not?  How  thick  they 
hang!  and  yet  it  seems  but  yesterday  that  Ursula  and  I  were 
standing  here  trying  to  count  the  blossoms." 

He  stopped — touching  a  branch  with  his  hand.  His  voice 
sank  so  I  could  hardly  hear  it. 

"Do  you  know,  Phineas,  that  when  this  tree  is  bare — we 
shall,  if  with  God's  blessing  all  goes  well — we  shall  have  a 
little  child." 

I  wrung  his  hand  in  silence. 

"You  cannot  imagine  how  strange  it  feels.  A  child — hers 
and  mine — little  feet  to  go  pattering  about  our  house — a  little 

voice  to  say .  Think  that  by  Christmas-time  I  shall  be  a 

father." 

He  sat  down  on  the  garden-bench  and  did  not  speak  for  a 
long  time. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  at  last,  "if  when  I  was  born,  my  father 
was  as  young  as  I  am;  whether  he  felt  as  I  do  now.  You  can- 
not think  what  an  awful  joy  it  is  to  be  looking  forward  to  a 
child;  a  little  soul  of  God's  giving,  to  be  made  fit  for  His 
eternity.  How  shall  we  do  it — we  that  are  both  so  ignorant, 
so  young?  She  will  be  only  just  nineteen  when,  please  God, 
her  baby  is  born.  Sometimes  of  an  evening  we  sit  for  hours 
on  this  bench,  she  and  I,  talking  of  what  we  ought  to  do,  and 
how  we  ought  to  rear  the  little  thing  until  we  fall  into  si- 
lence, awed  at  the  blessing  that  is  coming  to  us." 

"God  will  help  you  both  and  make  you  wise." 

"We  trust  He  will;  and  then  we  are  not  afraid." 

A  little  while  longer  I  sat  by  John's  side,  catching  the  dim 
outline  of  his  face,  half  uplifted,  looking  toward  those  myriad 
worlds,  which  we  are  taught  to  believe,  and  do  believe,  are  not 
more  precious  in  the  Almighty's  sight  than  one  living  human 
soul. 

But  he  said  no  more  of  the  hope  that  was  coming,  or  of  the 
thoughts  which,  in  the  holy  hush  of  that  summer  night,  had 


222  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

risen  out  of  the  deep  of  his  heart.  And  though,  after  this 
time,  they  never  again  formed  themselves  into  words,  yet  he 
knew  well  that  not  a  hope,  or  joy,  or  fear  of  his,  whether  un- 
derstood or  not,  could  be  unshared  by  me. 

In  the  winter,  when  the  first  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  the 
little  one  came. 

It  was  a  girl — I  think  they  had  wished  for  a  son;  but  they 
forgot  all  about  it  when  the  tiny  maiden  appeared.  She  was 
a  pretty  baby — at  least,  all  the  women-kind  said  so,  from  Mrs. 
Jessop  down  to  Jael,  who  left  our  poor  house  to  its  own  de- 
vices, and  trod  stately  in  Mrs.  Halifax's,  exhibiting  to  all  be- 
holders the  mass  of  white  draperies  with  the  infinitesimal  hu- 
man morsel  inside  them,  which  she  vehemently  declared  was 
the  very  image  of  its  father. 

For  that  young  father 

But  I — what  can  I  say?  How  should  I  tell  of  the  joy  of  a 
man  over  his  first-born! 

I  did  not  see  John  till  a  day  afterward,  when  he  came  into 
our  house,  calm,  happy,  smiling.  But  Jael  told  me,  that  when 
she  first  placed  his  baby  in  his  arms,  he  had  wept  like  a  child. 

The  little  maiden  grew  with  the  snow-drops.  Winter  might 
have  dropped  her  out  of  his  very  lap,  so  exceedingly  fair,  pale, 
and  pure-looking  was  she.  I  had  never  seen,  or  at  least  never 
noticed  any  young  baby  before;  but  she  crept  into  my  heart 
before  I  was  aware.  I  seem  to  have  a  clear  remembrance  of 
all  the  data  in  her  still  and  quiet  infancy,  from  the  time  her 
week-old  fingers,  with  their  tiny  pink  nails — a  ludicrous  pic- 
ture of  her  father's  hand  in  little — made  me  smile  as  they 
closed  over  mine. 

She  was  named  Muriel,  after  the  rather  peculiar  name  of 
John's  mother.  Her  own  mother  would  have  it  so;  only  wish- 
ing out  of  her  full  heart,  happy  one!  that  there  should  be  a 
slight  alteration  made  in  the  second  name.  Therefore  the 
baby  was  called  Muriel  Joy — Muriel  Joy  Halifax. 

That  name — beautiful,  sacred,  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
among  us — I  write  it  now  with  tears. 

In  December,  1802,  she  was  born — our  Muriel.  And  on 
February  9th — alas!  I  have  need  to  remember  that  date! — she 
formally  received  her  name.  We  all  dined  at  John's  house; 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Jessop,  my  father  and  I. 

It  was  the  first  time  my  father  had  taken  a  meal  under  any 
roof  but  his  own  for  twenty  years.  We  had  not  expected  him; 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  223 

since,  when  asked  and  entreated,  he  only  shook  his  head;  but 
just  when  we  were  all  sitting  down  to  the  table,  Ursula  at  the 
foot,  her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  lips  dimpling  with  a  house- 
wifely delight  that  everything  was  so  nice  and  neat,  she  start- 
led us  by  a  little  cry  of  pleasure. '  And  there,  in  the  door-way, 
stood  my  father! 

His  broad  figure,  but  slightly  bent  even  now,  his  smooth- 
shaven  face,  withered,  but  of  a  pale  brown  still,  with  the  hard 
lines  softening  down,  and  the  keen  eyes  kinder  than  they  used 
to  be;  dressed  carefully  in  his  First-day  clothes,  the  stainless 
white  kerchief  supporting  his  large  chin,  his  Quaker's  hat  in 
one  hand,  his  stick  in  the  other,  looking  in  at  us,  a  half- 
amused  twitch  mingling  with  the  gravity  of  his  mouth — thus 
he  stood — thus  I  see  thee,  0  my  dear  old  father. 

The  young  couple  seemed  as  if  they  never  could  welcome 
him  enough.  He  only  said,  "I  thank  thee,  John,"  "I  thank 
thee,  Ursula;"  and  took  his  place  beside  the  latter,  giving  no 
reason  why  he  had  changed  his  mind  and  come.  Simple  as 
the  dinner  was,  simple  as  befitted  those  who,  their  guests 
knew,  could  not  honestly  afford  luxuries,  though  there  were  no 
ornaments  save  the  center  nosegay  of  laurestines  and  white 
Christmas  roses,  I  do  not  think  King  George  himself  ever  sat 
down  to  a  nobler  feast. 

Afterward,  we  drew  merrily  round  the  fire,  or  watched  out- 
side the  window  the  thickly-falling  snow. 

"It  has  not  snowed  these  two  months,"  said  John;  "never 
since  the  day  our  little  girl  was  born." 

And  at  that  moment,  as  if  she  heard  herself  mentioned,  and 
was  indignant  at  our  having  forgotten  her  so  long,  the  little 
maid  upstairs  set  up  a  cry — that  unmistakable  child's  cry, 
which  seems  to  change  the  whole  atmosphere  of  a  household. 

My  father  gave  a  start — he  had  never  seen  or  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  John's  daughter.  We  knew  he  did  not  like  ba- 
bies. Again  the  little  helpless  wail;  Ursula  rose  and  stole 
away — Abel  Fletcher  looked  after  her  with  a  curious  expres- 
sion, then  began  to  say  something  about  going  back  to  the 
tan-yard. 

"Do  not,  pray  do  not  leave  us,"  John  entreated;  "Ursula 
wants  to  show  you  our  little  lady." 

My  father  put  out  his  hands  in  deprecation;  or  as  if  desiring 
to  thrust  from  him  a  host  of  thronging,  battling  thoughts. 
Still  came  faintly  down  at  intervals  the  tiny  voice,  dropping 
into  a  soft  coo  of  pleasure,  like  a  wood-dove  in  its  nest — 


224  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.. 

every  mother  knows  the  sound.  And  then  Mrs.  Halifax  en- 
tered, holding  in  her  arms  her  little  winter-flower,  her  baby 
daughter. 

Abel  Fletcher  just  looked  at  it  and  her — closed  his  eyes 
against  both,  and  looked  no  more. 

Ursula  seemed  pained  a  moment,  but  soon  forgot  it  in  the 
general  admiration  of  her  treasure. 

"She  might  well  come  in  a  snow-storm/'  said  Mrs.  Jessop, 
taking  the  child.  "She  is  just  like  snow,  so  soft  and  white." 

"And  so  soundless — she  hardly  ever  cries.  She  just  lies  in 
this  way  half  the  day  over,  cooing  quietly  with  her  eyes  shut. 
There,  she  has  caught  your  dress  fast.  Now,  was  there  ever  a 
two-months'-old  baby  so  quick  at  noticing  things?  and  she 
does  it  all  with  her  fingers — she  touches  everything — ah!  take 
care,  doctor!"  the  mother  added,  reproachfully,  at  a  loud 
slam  of  the  door,  which  made  the  baby  tremble  all  over. 

"I  never  knew  a  child  so  susceptible  of  sound,"  said  John, 
as  he  began  talking  to  it,  and  soothing  it.  How  strange  it 
was  to  see  him!  and  jet  it  seemed  quite  natural  already.  "I 
think  even  now  she  knows  the  difference  between  her  mother's 
voice  and  mine;  and  any  sudden  noise  always  startles  her  in 
this  way." 

"She  must  have  astonishingly  quick  hearing,"  said  the  doc- 
tor, slightly  annoyed.  Ursula  wisely  began  to  talk  of  some- 
thing else — showed  Muriel's  eyelashes,  very  long  for  such  a 
baby — and  descanted  on  the  color  of  her  eyes,  that  fruitful  and 
never-ending  theme  of  mothers  and  friends. 

"I  think  they  are  like  her  father's;  yes,  certainly  like  her 
father's.  But  we  have  not  many  opportunities  of  judging,  for 
she  is  such  a  lazy  young  damsel,  she  hardly  ever  opens  them — 
we  should  often  fancy  her  asleep,  but  for  that  little  soft  coo; 
and  then  she  will  wake  up  all  of  a  sudden.  There  now!  do 
you  see  her?  Come  to  the  window,  my  beauty!  and  show  Dr. 
Jessop  your  bonny  brown  eyes." 

They  were  bonny  eyes!  lovely  in  shape  and  color,  delicately 
fringed;  but  there  was  something  strange  in  their  expression 
— or  rather,  in  their  want  of  it.  Many  babies  have  a  round, 
vacant  stare — but  this  was  no  stare,  only  a  wide,  full  look — a 
look  of  quiet  blankness — an  unseeing  look. 

It  caught  Dr.  Jessop's  notice.  I  saw  his  air  of  vexed  dig- 
nity change  into  a  certain  anxiety. 

"Well,  whose  are  they  like — her  father's  or  mine?  his  I 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  225 

hope — it  will  be  the  better  for  her  beauty.  Nay,  we'll  excuse 
all  compliments/' 

"I — I  can't  exactly  tell.  I  could  judge  better  by  candle- 
light." 

"We'll  have  candles." 

"No — no!  Had  we  not  better  put  it  off  altogether  till  an- 
other day?  I'll  call  in  to-morrow  and  look  at  her  eyes." 

His  manner  was  hesitating  and  troubled.     John  noticed  it. 

"Love  give  her  to  me.     Go  and  get  us  lights,  will  you?" 

When  she  was  gone,  John  took  his  baby  to  the  window, 
gazed  long  and  intently  into  her  little  face,  then  at  Dr.  Jes- 
sop.  "Do  you  think — no — it's  not  possible — that  there  can 
be  anything  the  matter  with  the  child's  eyes?" 

Ursula  coming  in,  heard  the  last  words. 

"What  was  that  you  said  about  baby's  eyes?" 

No  one  answered  her.  All  were  gathered  in  a  group  at  the 
window,  the  child  being  held  on  her  fathers  lap,  while  Dr. 
Jessop  was  trying  to  open  the  small  white  lids,  kept  so  con- 
tinually closed.  At  last  the  baby  uttered  a  little  cry  of  pain — 
the  mother  darted  forward,  and  clasped  it  almost  savagely  to 
her  breast. 

"I  will  not  have  my  baby  hurt!  There  is  nothing  wrong 
with  her  sweet  eyes.  Go  away;  you  shall  not  touch  her,  John." 

"Love!" 

She  melted  at  that  low,  fond  word;  leaned  against  his 
shoulder — trying  to  control  her  tears. 

"It  shocked  me  so;  the  bare  thought  of  such  a  thing.  0, 
husband,  don't  let  her  be  looked  at  again!" 

"Only  once  again,  my  darling.  It  is  best.  Then  we  shall 
be  quite  satisfied.  Phineas,  give  me  the  candle." 

The  words — caressing,  and  by  strong  constraint,  made  calm 
and  soothing — were  yet  firm.  Ursula  resisted  no  more,  but 
let  him  take  Muriel — little,  unconscious,  cooing  dove!  Lulled 
by  her  father's  voice,  she  once  more  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Dr. 
Jessop  passed  the  candle  before  them  many  times,  once  so  close 
that  it  almost  touched  her  face,  but  the  full,  quiet  eyes  never 
blanched  nor  closed.  He  set  the  light  down. 

"Doctor!"  whispered  the  father,  in  a  wild  appeal  against — 
ay,  it  was  against  certainty.  He  snatched  the  candle,  and 
tried  the  experiment  himself. 

"She  does  not  see  at  all.     Can  she  be  blind?" 

"Born  blind." 

Yes,  those  pretty  baby  eyes  were  dark — quite  dark.     There 

15 


226  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

was  nothing  painful  nor  unnatural  in  their  look,  save,  per- 
haps, the  blankness  of  gaze  which  I  have  before  noticed.  Out- 
wardly, their  organization  was  perfect;  but  in  the  fine  inner 
mechanism  was  something  wrong — something  wanting.  She 
never  had  seen — never  would  see — in  this  world. 

"Blind!"  The  word  was  uttered  softly  hardly  above  a 
breath,  yet  the  mother  heard  it.  She  pushed  every  one  aside, 
and  took  the  child  herself.  Herself,  with  a  desperate  incre- 
dulity, she  looked  into  those  eyes,  which  never  could  look  back 
either  her  agony  or  her  love.  Poor  mother! 

"John!  John,  oh,  John!"  the  name  rising  into  a  cry,  as  if 
he  could  surely  help  her.  He  came  and  took  her  in  his  arms 
— took  both,  wife  and  babe.  She  laid  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der in  bitter  weeping.  "Oh,  John!  it  is  so  hard!  Our  pretty 
one — our  own  little  child!" 

John  did  not  speak,  but  only  held  her  to  him — close  and 
fast.  When  she  was  a  little  calmer,  he  whispered  to  her  the 
comfort — the  sole  comfort  even  her  husband  could  give  her — 
through  Whose  will  it  was  that  this  affliction  came. 

"And  it  is  more  an  affliction  to  you  than  it  will  be  to  her, 
poor  pet!"  said  Mrs.  Jessop,  as  she  wiped  her  friendly  eyes. 
"She  will  not  miss  what  she  never  knew.  She  may  be  a  happy 
little  child.  Look,  how  she  lies  and  smiles." 

But  the  mother  could  not  take  that  consolation  yet.  She 
walked  to  and  fro,  and  stood  rocking  her  baby,  mute  indeed, 
but  with  tears  falling  in  showers.  Gradually-  her  anguish 
wept  itself  away,  or  was  smothered  down,  lest  it  should  dis- 
turb the  little  creature  asleep  on  her  breast. 

Some  one  came  behind  her,  and  placed  her  in  the  arm-chair 
gently.  It  was  my  father.  He  sat  down  by  her,  taking  her 
hand. 

"Grieve  not,  Ursula.  I  had  a  little  brother  who  was  blind. 
He  was  the  happiest  creature  I  ever  knew." 

My  father  sighed.  We  all  marveled  to  see  the  wonderful 
softness,  even  tenderness,  which  had  come  into  him. 

"Give  me  thy  child  for  a  minute."  Ursula  laid  it  across  his 
knees;  he  put  his  hand  solemnly  on  the  baby-breast.  "God 
bless  this  little  one!  Ay,  and  she  shall  be  blessed." 

These  words,  spoken  with  as  full  assurance  as  the  prophetic 
benediction  of  the  departing  patriarchs  of  old,  struck  us  all. 
"We  looked  at  little  Muriel  as  if  the  blessing  were  already  upon 
her;  as  if  the  mysterious  touch  which  had  sealed  up  her  eyes 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  227 

forever,  had  left  on  her  a  sanctity  like  as  of  one  who  has  been 
touched  by  the  finger  of  God. 

"Now,  children,  I  must  go  home,"  said  my  father. 

They  did  not  detain  us:  it  was  indeed  best  that  the  poor 
young  parents  should  be  left  alone. 

"You  will  come  again  soon?"  begged  Ursula,  tenderly  clasp- 
ing the  hand  which  he  had  laid  upon  her  curls  as  he  rose, 
with  another  murmured  "God  bless  thee!" 

"Perhaps.  We  never  know.  Be  a  good  wife  to  thy  hus- 
band, my  girl.  And  John,  never  be  thou  harsh  to  her,  nor 
too  hard  upon  her  little  failings.  She  is  but  young — but 
young." 

He  sighed  again.  It  was  plain  to  see  he  was  thinking  of 
another  than  Ursula. 

As  we  walked  down  the  street,  he  spoke  to  me  only  once  or 
twice,  and  then  of  things  which  startled  me  by  their  strange- 
ness— things  which  had  happened  a  long  time  ago;  sayings 
and  doings  of  mine  in  my  childhood,  which  I  had  not  the 
least  idea  he  had  either  known  of  or  remembered. 

When  we  got  in-doors,  I  asked  if  I  should  come  and  sit  with 
him  till  his  bedtime. 

"No,  no;  thee  looks  tired,  and  I  have  a  business  letter  to 
write.  Better  go  to  thy  bed  as  usual." 

"I  bade  him  good-night  and  was  going,  when  he  called  me 
back. 

"How  old  art  thee,  Phineas — twenty-four  or  five?" 

"Twenty-five,  father." 

"Eh!  so  much?"  He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and 
looked  down  on  me  kindly,  even  tenderly.  "Thee  art  but 
weakly  still,  but  thee  must  pick  up,  and  live  to  be  as  old  a  man 
as  thy  father.  Good-night.  God  be  with  thee,  my  son!" 

I  left  him.  I  was  happy.  Once  I  had  never  expected  my 
old  father  and  I  would  have  got  on  together  so  well,  or  loved 
one  another  so  dearly. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  Jael  came  into  my  room,  and  sat 
down  on  my  bed's  foot,  looking  at  me.  I  had  been  dreaming 
strangely,  about  my  own  childish  days,  and  about  my  father 
and  mother  when  we  were  young. 

What  Jael  told  me — by  slow  degrees,  and  as  tenderly  as 
when  she  was  my  nurse  years  ago — seemed  at  first  so  unreal 
as  to  be  like  a  part  of  the  dream. 

At  ten  o'clock,  when  she  had  locked  up  the  house,  she  had 
come  as  usual  to  the  parlor-door  to  tell  my  father  it  was  bed- 


228  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

time.     He  did  not  answer,  being  sitting  with  his  back  to  the 
door,  apparently  busy  writing.     So  she  went  away. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  she  came  again.  He  sat  there  still 
— he  had  not  moved.  One  hand  supported  his  head;  the 
other,  the  fingers  stiffly  holding  the  pen,  lay  on  the  table.  He 
seemed  intently  gazing  on  what  he  had  written.  It  ran  thus: 

"Good  Friend:     To-morrow  I  shall  be " 

But  there  the  hand  had  stopped — forever. 

Oh,  dear  father!  on  that  to-morrow  thou  wert  with  God! 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

It  was  the  year  1812.  I  had  lived  for  ten  years  as  a  brother, 
in  my  adopted  brother's  house,  whither  he  had  brought  me  on 
the  day  of  my  father's  funeral;  entreating  that  I  should  never 
leave  it  again.  For,  as  was  shortly  afterward  made  clear,  fate 
— say  Providence — was  now  inevitably  releasing  him  from  a 
bond,  from  which,  so  long  as  my  poor  father  lived,  John  would 
never  have  released  himself.  It  was  discovered  that  the  prof- 
its of  the  tanning-trade  had  long  been  merely  nominal — that 
of  necessity,  for  the  support  of  our  two  families,  the  tan-yard 
must  be  sold  and  the  business  confined  entirely  to  the  flour 
mill. 

At  this  crisis — as  if  the  change  of  all  things  broke  her  stout 
old  heart,  which  never  could  bend  to  any  new  ways — Jael  died. 
We  laid  her  at  my  father's  and  mothers  feet — poor  old  Jael! 
and  that  grave-yard  in  St.  Mary's  Lane  now  covered  all  who 
ever  loved  me,  all  who  were  of  my  youth-day — my  very  own. 

So  thought  I — or  might  have  thought — but  that  John  and 
Ursula  then  demanded  with  one  voice,  "Brother,  come  home." 

I  resisted  long;  for  it  is  one  of  my  decided  opinions  that 
married  people  ought  to  have  no  one,  be  the  tie  ever  so  close 
and  dear,  living  permanently  with  them  to  break  the  sacred 
duality — no,  let  me  say  the  unity — of  their  home. 

I  wished  to  try  and  work  for  my  living,  if  that  were  possible 
— if  not,  that  out  of  the  wreck  of  my  father's  trade  might  be 
found  enough  to  keep  me,  in  some  poor  way.  But  John  Hali- 
fax would  not  hear  of  that.  And  Ursula — she  was  sitting 
sewing,  while  the  little  one  lay  on  her  lap,  cooing  softly— 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  229 

with  shut  eyes — Ursula  took  my  hand  to  play  with  Muriel's. 
The  baby-fingers  closed  over  mine — "See  there  Phineas;  she 
wants  you,  too/'  So  I  stayed. 

Perhaps  it  was  on  this  account,  that  better  than  all  his  other 
children,  better  than  anything  on  earth  except  himself,  I  loved 
John's  eldest  daughter,  little  blind  Muriel. 

He  had  several  children  now.  The  dark  old  house  and  the 
square  old  garden  were  alive  with  their  voices  from  morning 
till  night.  First,  and  loudest  always  was  Guy — born  the  year 
after  Muriel.  He  was  very  like  his  mother,  and  her  darling. 
After  him  came  two  more,  Edwin  and  Walter.  But  Muriel 
still  remained  as  "sister" — the  only  sister  either  given  or  de- 
sired. 

If  I  could  find  a  name  to  describe  that  child,  it  would  be 
not  the  one  her  happy  mother  gave  her  at  her  birth,  but  one 
more  sacred,  more  tender.  She  was  better  than  Joy — she  was 
an  embodied  Peace. 

Her  motions  were  slow  and  tranquil,  her  voice  soft,  every 
expression  of  her  little  face  extraordinarily  serene.  Whether 
creeping  about  the  house,  with  a  footfall  silent  as  snow,  or 
sitting  among  us,  either  knitting  busily  at  her  father's  knee, 
or  listening  to  his  talk  and  the  children's  play,  everywhere 
and  always,  Muriel  was  the  same.  No  one  ever  saw  her  angr}r, 
restless  or  sad.  The  soft  dark  calm  in  which  she  lived  seemed 
never  broken  by  the  troubles  of  this  our  troublous  world. 

She  was,  as  I  have  said,  from  her  very  babyhood,  a  living 
peace.  And  such  she  was  to  us,  all  during  those  ten  strug- 
gling years,  when  our  household  had  much  to  contend  with, 
much  to  endure.  If  at  night  her  father  came  home  jaded 
and  worn,  sickened  to  the  soul  by  the  hard  battle  he  had 
to  fight  daily,  hourly,  with  the  outside  world,  Muriel  would 
come  softly  and  creep  into  his  bosom,  and  he  was  comforted. 
If,  busying  herself  about,  doing  faithfully  her  portion  too, 
that  the  husband,  when  he  came  in  of  evenings  might  find 
all  cheerful,  and  never  know  how  heavy  had  been  the  house- 
hold cares  during  the  day — if,  at  times,  Ursula's  voice  took 
too  sharp  a  tone — at  sight  of  Muriel  it  softened  at  once.  Xo 
one  could  speak  any  but  soft  and  sweet  words  when  the  blind 
child  was  by. 

Yet,  I  think  either  parent  would  have  looked  amazed,  had 
any  one  pitied  them  for  having  a  blind  child.  The  loss — 
a  loss  only  to  them,  and  not  to  her,  the  darling — became 
familiar  and  ceased  to  wound!  the  blessedness  was  ever  new. 


230  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Ay,  and  she  shall  be  blessed,"  had  said  my  dear  father.  So 
she  was.  From  her,  or  for  her,  her  parents  never  had  to  en- 
dure a  single  pain.  Even  the  sickness  of  infancy  and  child- 
hood, of  which  the  three  others  had  their  natural  share,  al- 
ways passed  her  by,  as  if  in  pity.  Nothing  ever  ailed  Muriel. 

The  spring  of  1812  was  an  era  long  remembered  in  our 
family.  Scarlet  fever  went  through  the  house — safely,  but 
leaving  much  care  behind.  When  at  last  they  all  came  round, 
and  we  were  able  to  gather  our  pale  little  flock  to  a  garden 
feast,  under  the  big  old  pear-tree,  it  was  with  the  trembling 
thankfulness  of  those  who  have  gone  through  great  perils, 
hardly  dared  to  be  recognized  as  such  till  they  were  over. 

"Ay,  thank  God  it  is  over!"  said  John,  as  he  put  his  arm 
round  his  wife,  and  looked  in  her  worn  face,  where  still  her 
own  smile  lingered — her  bright,  brave  smile,  that  nothing 
could  ever  drive  away.  "And  now  we  must  try  and  make  a 
little  holiday  for  you." 

"Nonsense!  I  am  as  well  as  possible.  Did  not  Dr.  Jessop 
tell  me,  this  morning,  I  was  looking  younger  than  ever?  I — 
a  mother  of  a  family,  thirty  years  old?  Pray,  Uncle  Phineas, 
do  I.  look  my  age  ?" 

I  could  not  say  that  she  did  not — especially  now.  But 
she  wore  it  so  gracefully,  so  carelessly,  that  I  saw — ay,  and 
truly  her  husband  saw — a  sacred  beauty  about  her  faded 
cheek,  more  lovely  and  lovable  than  all  the  bloom  of  her 
youth.  Happy  woman!  who  was  not  afraid  of  growing  old. 

"Love," — John  usually  called  her  "Love" — putting  it  at 
the  beginning  of  a  sentence,  as  if  it  had  been  her  natural 
Christian  name,  which,  as  in  all  infant  households,  had  been 
gradually  dropped  or  merged  into  the  universal  title  of 
"mother."  My  name  for  her  was  always  emphatically  "The 
Mother,"  the  truest  type  of  motherhood  I  ever  knew. 

"Love,"  her  husband  began  again,  after  a  long  look  in 
her  face — ah,  John,  thine  was  altered  too,  but  himself  was 
the  last  thing  he  thought  of — "say  what  you  like,  I  know 
what  we'll  do;  for  the  children's  sake.  Ah,  that's  her  weak 
point!  see,  Phineas,  she  is  yielding  now.  We'll  go  for  three 
months  to  Longfield." 

Now  Longfield  was  the  Utopia  of  our  family,  old  and 
young.  A  very  simple  family  we  must  have  been,  for  this 
Longfield  was  only  a  small  farm-house,  about  six  miles  off, 
where  once  we  had  been  to  tea,  and  where  ever  since  we  had 
longed  to  live.  For,  pretty  as  our  domain  had  grown,  it  was 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  231 

still  in  the  middle  of  a  town,  and  the  children,  like  all  natur- 
ally-reared children,  craved  ai'ter  the  freedom  <xf  the  coun- 
try; after  cornfields,  hay  fields,  nuttings,  black  berryings;  de- 
lights hitherto  known  only  at  rare  intervals,  when  their  father 
could  spare  a  whole  long  day,  and  be  at  once  the  defense  and 
cheer,  the  sun  and  the  shield,  of  the  happy  little  band. 

"Hearken,  children!  father  says  we  shall  go  for  three  whole 
months  to  live  at  Longfield." 

The  three  boys  set  up  a  shout  of  ecstacy. 
"I'll  swim  boats  down  the  stream,  and  catch  and  ride  every 
one  of  the  horses.    Hurrah!"  shouted  Guy. 

"And  I'll  see  after  the  ducks  and  chickens,  and  watch 
all  the  threshing  and  winnowing,"  said  Edwin,  the  practical 
and  grave. 

"And  I'll  get  a  'ittle  'amb  to  p'ay  wid  me,"  lisped  Walter, 
still  "the  baby,"  or  considered  such,  and  petted  accordingly. 

"But  what  does  my  little  daughter  say?"  said  the  father, 
turning,  as  he  always  turned,  at  the  slightest  touch  of  those 
soft  blind  fingers  creeping  along  his  coat-sleeve.  "^VTiat  will 
Muriel  do  at  Longfield?" 

"Muriel  will  sit  all  day  and  hear  the  birds  sing." 
"So  she  shall,  my  blessing!"  He  often  called  her  his  "bless- 
ing," which  in  truth  she  was.  To  see  her  now,  leaning  her 
cheek  against  his,  the  small  soft  face,  almost  a  miniature  of 
his  own,  the  hair,  a  paler  shade  of  the  same  bright  color, 
curling  in  the  same  elastic  rings — they  looked  less  like  or- 
dinary father  and  daughter,  than  like  a  man  and  his  good 
angel;  the  visible  embodiment  of  the  best  half  of  his  soul. 
So  she  was  ever  to  him,  this  child  of  his  youth,  his  first-born 
and  his  dearest. 

The  Longfield  plan  being  once  started,  father  and  mother 
and  I  began  to  consult  together  as  to  ways  and  means,  what 
should  be  given  up,  and  what  increased,  of  our  absolute  lux- 
uries in  order  that  the  children  might  this  summer — possibly 
every  summer — have  the  glory  of  "living  in  the  country."  Of 
these  domestic  consultations  there  was  never  any  dread,  for 
they  were  always  held  in  public.  There  were  no  secrets  in  our 
house.  Father  and  mother,  though  sometimes  holding  differ- 
ent opinions,  had  but  one  thought,  one  aim — the  family  good. 
Thus,  even  in  our  lowest  estate,  there  had  been  no  bitterness 
in  our  poverty;  we  met  it,  looked  it  in  the  face,  often  even 
laughed  at  it.  For  it  bound  us  all  together,  hand  in  hand; 
it  taught  us  endurance,  self-dependence,  and,  best  of  all  les- 


232  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

sons,  self-renunciation.  I  think  one's  whole  after-life  is  made 
easier  and  more  blessed  by  having  known  what  it  was  to  be 
very  poor  when  one  was  young. 

Our  fortunes  were  rising  now,  and  any  little  pleasure  did 
not  take  near  so  much  contrivance.  We  found  we  could 
manage  the  Longfield  visit — ay,  and  a  horse  for  John  to  ride 
to  and  fro — without  any  worse  sacrifice  than -that  of  leaving 
Jenny — now  Mrs.  Jem  "Watkins,  but  our  cook  still — in  the 
house  at  Norton  Bury,  and  doing  with  one  servant  instead  of 
two.  Also,  though  this  was  not  publicly  known  till  afterward, 
by  the  mother's  renouncing  a  long-promised  silk  dress — the 
only  one  since  her  marriage — in  which  she  had  determined  to 
astonish  John  by  choosing  the  same  color  as  that  identical 
gray  gown  he  had  seen  hanging  up  in  the  kitchen  at  Ender- 
fey. 

"But  one  would  give  up  anything,"  she  said,  "that  the 
children  might  have  such  a  treat,  and  that  father  might  have 
rides  backward  and  forward  through  green  lanes  all  summer. 
Oh,  I  wish  we  could  always  live  in  the  country!" 

"Do  you?"  And  John  looked — much  as  he  had  looked 
at  long-tailed  gray  ponies  in  his  bridegroom  days — longing 
to  give  her  everything  she  desired.  "Well,  perhaps  we  may 
manage  it  sometime." 

"When  our  ship  comes  in — namely  that  money  which  Rich- 
ard Brithwood  will  not  pay,  and  John  Halifax  will  not  go  to 
law  to  make  him.  Nay,  father  dear,  I  am  not  going  to  quarrel 
with  any  one  of  your  crotchets."  She  spoke  with  a  fond  pride, 
as  she  did  always,  even  when  arguing  against  the  too  Quixotic 
carrying  out  of  the  said  crotchets.  "Perhaps,  as  the  reward 
of  forbearance,  the  money  will  come  some  day  when  we  least 
expect  it;  then  John  shall  have  his  heart's  desire,  and  start 
the  cloth-mills  at  Enderley." 

John  smiled  half  sadly.  Every  man  has  his  hobby — this 
was  his,  and  had  been  for  fifteen  years.  Not  merely  the 
making  a  fortune,  as  he  still  firmly  believed  it  could  be  made, 
but  the  position  of  useful  power,  the  wide  range  of  influence, 
the  infinite  opportunities  of  doing  good. 

"No,  love;  I  shall  never  be  'patriarch  of  the  valley,'  as 
Phineas  used  to  call  it.  The  yew-hedge  is  too  thick  for  me, 
eh,Phineas?" 

"No!"  cried  Ursula — we  had  told  her  this  little  incident 
of  our  boyhood — "you  have  got  half  through  it  already.  Ev- 
erybody in  Norton  Bury  knows  and  respects  you.  I  am  sure, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  233 

Phineas,  you  might  have  heard  a  pin  fall  at  the  meeting  last 
night,  when  he  spoke  against  hanging  the  Luddites.  And 
such  a  shout  as  rose  when  he  ended — oh,  how  proud  I  was!" 

"Of  the  shout,  love?" 

"Nonsense!  but  of  the  cause  of  it.  Proud  to  see  my  hus- 
band defending  the  poor  and  the  oppressed — proud  to  see 
him  honored  and  looked  up  to,  more  and  more  every  year, 
till " 

"Till  it  may  come  at  last  to  the  prophecy  in  your  birth- 
day verse — 'Her  husband  is  known  in  the  gates;  he  sitteth 
among  the  elders  of  the  land.' '' 

Mrs.  Halifax  laughed  at  me  for  reminding  her  of  this,  but 
allowed  that  she  would  not  dislike  its  being  fulfilled. 

"And  it  will  be,  too.  He  is  already  'known  in  the  gates;' 
known  far  and  near.  Think  how  many  of  our  neighbors  come 
to  John  to  settle  their  differences,  instead  of  going  to  law! 
And  how  many  poachers  has  he  not  persuaded  out  of  their 
dishonest " 

"Illegal,"  corrected  John. 

"Well,  their  illegal  ways,  and  made  decent,  respectable  men 
of  them!  Then,  see  how  he  is  consulted,  and  his  opinion  fol- 
lowed, by  rich  folk  as  well  as  poor  folk,  all  about  the  neigh- 
borhood. I  am  sure  John  is  as  popular,  and  has  as  much  in- 
fluence as  many  a  member  of  Parliament." 

John  smiled  with  an  amused  twitch  about  his  mouth,  but 
he  said  nothing.  He  rarely  did  say  anything  about  himself — 
not  even  in  his  own  household.  The  glory  of  his  life  was  its 
unconsciousness — like  our  own  silent  Severn,  however  broad 
and  grand  it  current  might  be,  that  course  seemed  the  natural 
channel  into  which  it  flowed. 

"There's  Muriel,"  said  the  father,  listening. 

Often  thus  the  child  slipped  away,  and  suddenly  we  heard 
all  over  the  house  the  sweet  sounds  of  "Muriel's  voice,"  as 
some  one  had  called  the  harpsichord.  When  almost  a  baby, 
she  would  feel  her  way  to  it,  and  find  out  first  harmonies,  then 
tunes,  with  that  quickness  and  delicacy  of  ear  peculiar  to  the 
blind. 

"How  well  she  plays!  I  wish  I  could  buy  her  one  of  those 
new  instruments  they  call  'piano-fortes;'  I  was  looking  into 
the  mechanism  of  one  the  other  day." 

"She  would  like  an  organ  better.  You  should  have  seen 
her  face  in  the  Abbey  church  this  morning." 


234  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Hark!  she  has  stopped  playing.  Guy,  run  and  bring  your 
sister  here/'  said  the  father,  ever  yearning  after  his  darling. 

Guy  came  back  with  a  wonderful  story  of  two  gentlemen 
in  the  parlor,  one  of  whom  had  patted  his  head — "such  a 
grand  gentleman,  a  great  deal  grander  than  father!" 

That  was  true  as  regarded  the  bright  nankeens,  the  blue 
coat  with  gold  buttons,  and  the  showiest  of  cambric  kerchiefs 
swathing  him  up  to  the  very  chin.  To  this  "grand"  person- 
age John  bowed  formally,  but  his  wife  flushed  up  in  surprised 
recognition. 

"It  is  so  long  since  I  have  had  the  happiness  of  meeting 
Miss  March,  that  I  conclude  Mrs.  Halifax  has  forgotten  me  ?" 

"No,  Lord  Luxmore;  allow  me  to  introduce  my  husband." 

And  I  fancied  some  of  Miss  March's  old  hauteur  returned 
to  the  mother's  softened  and  matronly  mien;  pride,  but  not 
for  herself  or  in  herself^  now.  For,  truly,  as  the  two  men 
stood  together — though  Lord  Luxmore  had  been  handsome 
in  his  youth,  and  was  universally  said  to  have  as  fine  manners 
as  the  Prince  Regent  himself — any  woman  might  well  have 
held  her  head  loftily,  introducing  John  Halifax  as  "my  hus- 
band." 

Of  the  two,  the  nobleman  was  least  at  his  ease,  for  the 
welcome  of  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax,  though  courteous, 
was  decidedly  cold.  They  did  not  seem  to  feel,  and,  if  rumor 
spoke  truth,  I  doubt  if  any  honest,  virtuous,  middle-class 
fathers  and  mothers  would  have  felt — that  their  house  was 
greatly  honored  or  sanctified  by  the  presence  of  the  Earl  of 
Luxmore. 

But  the  nobleman  was,  as  I  have  said,  wonderfully  fine- 
mannered.  He  broke  the  ice  at  once. 

"Mr.  Halifax,  I  have  long  wished  to  know  you.  Mrs.  Hali- 
fax, my  daughter  encouraged  me  to  pay  this  impromptu  visit." 

Here  ensued  polite  inquiries  after  Lady  Caroline  Brith- 
wood;  we  learned  that  she  was  just  returned  from  abroad, 
and  was  entertaining,  at  the  Mythe  House,  her  father  and 
brother. 

"Pardon — I  was  forgetting  my  son — Lord  Ravenel." 

The  youth  thus  presented  merely  bowed.  He  was  about 
eighteen  or  so,  tall  and  spare,  with  thin  features,  and  large 
soft  eyes.  He  soon  retreated  to  the  garden-door,  where  he 
stood,  watching  the  boys  play,  and  shyly  attempting  to  make 
friends  with  Muriel. 

"I  believe  Ravenel  has  seen  you  years  ago,  Mrs.  Halifax. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  235 

His  sister  made  a  great  pet  of  him  as  a  child.  He  has  just 
completed  his  education — at  the  college  of  St.  Omer,  was  it 
not,  William?" 

"The  Catholic  college  of  St.  Omer,"  repeated  the  boy. 

"Tut — what  matters!"  said  the  father,  sharply.  "Mr.  Hali- 
fax, do  not  imagine  we  are  a  Catholic  family  still.  I  hope 
the  next  Earl  of  Luxmore  will  be  able  to  take  the  oaths  and 
his  seat,  whether  or  no  we  get  Emancipation.  By-the-by,  you 
uphold  the  Bill?" 

John  assented;  expressing  his  conviction,  then  uphappily 
a  rare  one,  that  every  one's  conscience  is  free;  and  that  all 
men  of  blameless  life  ought  to  be  protected  by,  and  allowed 
to  serve  the  State,  whatever  be  their  religious  opinions. 

"Mr.  Halifax  I  entirely  agree  with  you.  A  wise  man  es- 
teems all  faiths  alike  worthless." 

"Excuse  me,  my  lord,  that  was  the  very  last  thing  I  meant 
to  say.  I  hold  every  man's  faith  so  sacred,  that  no  other 
man  has  a  right  to  interfere  with  it,  or  to  question  it.  The 
matter  lies  solely  between  himself  and  his  Maker." 

"Exactly!  What  facility  of  expression  your  husband  has, 
Mrs.  Halifax!  He  must  be — indeed,  I  have  heard  he  is— a 
first-rate  public  speaker." 

The  wife  smiled,  wife-like;  but  John  said  hurriedly: 

"I  have  no  pretension  or  ambition  of  the  kind.  I  merely 
now  and  then  try  to  put  plain  truths,  or  what  I  believe  to 
be  such,  before  the  people,  in  a  form  they  are  able  to  under- 
stand." 

"Ay,  that  is  it.  My  dear  sir,  the  people  have  no  more 
brains  than  the  head  of  my  cane  (his  Royal  Highness'  gift, 
Mrs.  Halifax);  they  must  be  led  or  driven  like  a  flock  of  sheep. 
We" — a  lordly  "we!" — "are  their  proper  shepherds.  But,  then, 

we  want  a  middle  class,  at  least,  an  occasional  voice  from  it, 
a » 

"A  shepherd's  dog,  to  give  tongue,"  said  John,  dryly.  "In 
short,  a  public  orator.  In  the  House,  or  out  of  it?" 

"Both."  And  the  earl  tapped  his  boot  with  that  royal  cane, 
smiling.  "Yes;  I  see  you  apprehend  me.  But,  before  we 
commence  that  somewhat  delicate  subject,  there  was  another 
on  which  I  desired  my  agent,  Mr.  Brown,  to  obtain  your 
valuable  opinion." 

"You  mean,  when,  yesterday,  he  offered  me,  by  your  lord- 
ship's express  desire,  the  lease,  lately  fallen  in,  of  your  cloth- 
mills  at  Enderley?" 


236  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Now,  John  had  not  told  us  that! — why,  his  manner  too 
plainly  showed. 

"And  all  will  be  arranged,  I  trust.  Brown  says  you  have 
long  wished  to  take  the  mills;  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  have 
you  for  a  tenant." 

"My  lord,  as  I  told  your  agent,  it  is  impossible.  "We  will 
«iy  no  more  about  it." 

John  crossed  over  to  his  wife  with  a  cheerful  air.  She  S;H 
looking  grave  and  sad. 

Lord  Luxmore  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  keen-witted 
diplomatic  personage;  undoubtedly  he  owned  or  could  assuuio, 
that  winning  charm  of  manner  which  had  descended  in  per- 
fection to  his  daughter.  Both  qualities  it  pleased  him  to 
exercise  now.  He  rose,  addressing  with  kindly  frankness  Hie 
husband  and  wife. 

"If  I  may  ask — being  a  most  sincere  well-wisher  of  yours, 
and  a  sort  of  connection  of  Mrs.  Halifax's  too — why  is  it  im- 
possible ?" 

"I  have  no  wish  to  disguise  the  reason;  it  is  because  I  have 
no  capital." 

Lord  Luxmore  looked  surprised.  "Surely — excuse  me,  bul 
1  had  the  honor  of  being  well  acquainted  with  the  late  Mr. 
March — surely  your  wife's  fortune 

Ursula  rose,  in  her  old  impetuous  way — "His  wife's  for- 
tune! (John,  let  me  say  it? — I  will,  I  must!)  Of  his  wife's 
fortune,  Lord  Luxmore,  he  has  never  received  one  farthing. 
Richard  Brithwood  keeps  it  back,  and  my  husband  would 
work  day  and  night  for  me  and  our  children,  rather  than  go 
to  law." ' 

"Oh!  on  principle  I  suppose.  I  have  heard  of  such  opin- 
ions," said  the  earl,  with  the  slightest  perceptible  sneer.  "And 
you  agree  with  him?" 

"I  do,  heartily.  I  would  rather  we  lived  poor  all  our  days 
than  that  he  should  wear  his  wife  out,  trouble  his  spirit,  per- 
haps even  soil  his  conscience,  by  squabbling  with  a  bad  man 
over  money  matters." 

It  was  good  to  see  Ursula  as  she  spoke;  good  to  see  the  look 
that  husband  and  wife  interchanged — husband  and  wife — 
different  in  many  points,  yet  so  blessedly,  so  safely  one!  Then 
John  said: 

"Love,  perhaps  another  subject  than  our  own  affairs  would 
be  more  interesting  to  Lord  Luxmore." 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all!"    And  the  earl  was  evidently  puzzled 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  237 

and  annoyed.  "Such  extraordinary  conduct/'  he  muttered: 
'•'so  very — ahem! — unwise.  If  the  matter  were  known — caught 
up  by  these  newspapers — I  must  really  have  a  little  conversa- 
tion with  Brithwood." 

The  conversation  paused,  and  John  changed  it  entirely, 
by  making  some  remarks  on  the  present  minister,  Mr.  Perci- 
val. 

"I  liked  his  last  speech  much.  He  seems  a  clear-headed, 
honest  man,  for  all  his  dogged  opposition  to  the  Bill." 

"He  will  never  oppose  it  more." 

"Nay,  I  think  he  will,  my  lord — to  the  death." 

"That  may  be — and  yet "  his  lordship  smiled.  "Mr. 

Halifax,  I  have  just  had  news  by  a  carrier-pigeon — my  birds 
fly  well — most  important  news  for  us  and  our  party.  Yester- 
day, in  the  lobby  of  the  House  of  Commons,  Mr.  Percival  was 
shot." 

We  all  started.  An  hour  ago  we  had  been  reading  his 
speech.  Mr.  Percival  shot! 

"Oh,  John,"  cried  the  mother,  her  eyes  full  of  tears,  "his 
fatherless  children!" 

And  for  many  minutes  they  stood,  hearing  the  lamentable 
history,  and  looking  at  their  little  ones  at  play  in  the  garden; 
thinking,  as  many  an  English  father  and  mother  did  that  day, 
of  the  stately  house  in  London,  where  the  widow  and  orphans 
bewailed  their  dead.  He  might  or  might  not  be  a  great 
statesman,  but  he  was  undoubtedly  a  good  man;  many  still 
remember  the  shock  of  his  untimely  death,  and  how,  whether 
or  not  they  liked  him  living,  all  the  honest  hearts  of  England 
mourned  for  Mr.  Percival. 

Possibly  that  number  did  not  include  the  Earl  of  Lux- 
more. 

"Requiescat  in  pace!  I  shall  propose  the  canonization  of 
poor  Bellingham.  For  now  Percival  in  dead,  there  will  be 
an  immediate  election;  and  on  that  election  depends  Catholic 
Emancipation.  Mr.  Halifax,"  turning  quickly  round  to  him, 
"you  would  be  of  great  use  to  us  in  Parliament." 

"Should  I?" 

"Will  you — I  like  plain  speaking — will  you  enter  it?" 

Enter  Parliament!  John  Halifax  in  Parliament!  His  wife 
and  I  were  both  astounded  by  the  suddenness  of  the  possi- 
bility; which,  however,  John  himself  seemed  to  receive  as  no 
novel  idea. 

Lord  Luxmore  continued;    "I  assure  you  nothing  is  more 


238  JOHN    HALIFAX;    GENTLEMAN. 

easy;  I  can  bring  you  in  at  once  for  a  borough  near  here — 
my  family  borough." 

"Which  you  wish  to  be  held  by  some  convenient  person 
till  Lord  Ravenel  comes  of  age?  So  Mr.  Brown  informed  me 
yesterday." 

Lord  Luxmore  slightly  frowned.  Such  transactions,  as 
common  then  in  the  service  of  the  councry  as  they  still  are 
in  the  service  of  the  Church,  were  yet  generally  glossed  over, 
as  if  a  certain  discredit  attached  to  them.  The  young  lord 
seemed  to  feel  it;  at  sound  of  his  name  he  turned  round  to 
listen,  and  turned  back  again,  blushing  scarlet.  Not  so  the 
earl,  his  father. 

"Brown  is — (may  I  offer  you  a  pinch,  Mr.  Halifax?  What! 
not  the  Prince  Eegent's  own  mixture?) — Brown  is  indeed  a 
worthy  fellow,  but  too  hasty  in  his  conclusions.  As  it  happens, 
my  son  is  yet  undecided  between  the  church — that  is,  the 
priesthood — and  politics.  But  to  our  conversation — Mrs.  Hal- 
ifax, may  I  not  enlist  you  on  my  side?  We  could  easily  re- 
move all  difficulties,  such  as  qualification,  etc.  Would  you 
not  like  to  see  your  husband  member  for  the  old  and  honorable 
borough  of  Kingswell?" 

"Kingswell!"  It  was  a  tumble-down  village  where  John 
held  and  managed  for  me  the  sole  remnant  of  landed  property 
which  my  poor  father  had  left  me.  "Kingswell!  Why  there 
are  not  half  a  dozen  houses  in  the  place." 

"The  fewer  the  better,  my  dear  madam.  The  election  would 
cost  me  scarcely  any — trouble;  and  the  country  be  vastly  the 
gainer  by  your  husband's  talents  and  probity.  Of  course,  he 
will  give  up  the — I  forget  what  is  his  business  now — and  live 
independent.  He  is  made  to  shine  as  a  politician;  it  will  be 
both  happiness  and  honor  to  myself  to  have  in  some  way  con- 
tributed to  that  end.  Mr.  Halifax,  you  will  accept  my  bor- 
ough?" 

"Not  on  any  consideration  your  lordship  could  offer  me." 

Lord  Luxmore  scarcely  credited  his  ears.  "My  dear  sir — 
you  are  the  most  extraordinary — may  I  again  inquire  your 
reasons?" 

"1  have  several;  one  will  suffice.  Though  I  wish  to  gain 
influence — power,  perhaps;  still,  the  last  thing  I  should  desire 
would  be  political  influence." 

"You  might  possibly  escape  that  unwelcome  possession," 
returned  the  earl.  "Half  the  House  of  Commons  is  made  up 
of  harmless  dummies  who  vote  as  we  bid  them." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  239 

"A  character,  my  lord,  for  which  I  am  decidedly  unfitted. 
Until  political  conscience  ceases  to  be  a  thing  of  traffic,  until 
the  people  are  allowed  honestly  to  choose  their  own  honest 
representatives,  I  must  decline  being  of  that  number.  Shall 
•we  dismiss  the  subject?" 

"With  pleasure,  sir." 

And  courtesy  being  met  by  courtesy,  the  question  so  mo- 
mentous was  passed  over,  and  merged  into  trivialties.  Perhaps 
the  earl,  who,  as  his  pleasure  palled,  was  understood  to  be 
fixing  his  keen  wits  upon  the  pet  profligacy  of  old  age,  politics 
— saw,  clearly  enough,  that  in  these  chaotic  days  of  contending 
parties,  when  the  maddened  outcry  of  the  "people"  was  just 
being  heard  and  listened  to,  it  might  be  as  well  not  to  make 
an  enemy  of  this  young  man,  who,  with  a  few  more,  stood, 
as  it  were,  midway  in  the  gulf,  now  slowly  beginning  to  nar- 
row, between  the  commonalty  and  the  aristocracy. 

He  stayed  some  time  longer,  and  then  bowed  himself  away 
with  a  gracious  condescension  worthy  of  the  Prince  of  Wales 
himself,  carrying  with  him  the  shy  gentle  Lord  Eavenel,  who 
had  spoken  scarcely  six  words  the  whole  time. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  father  and  mother  seemed  both 
relieved. 

a Truly,  John,  he  has  gained  little  by  his  visit,  and  I  hope 
it  may  be  long  before  we  see  an  earl  in  our  quiet  house  again. 
Come  in  to  dinner,  my  children." 

But-  his  lordship  had  left  an  uncomfortable  impression  be- 
hind him.  It  lasted  even  until  that  quiet  hour — often  the 
quietest  and  happiest  of  our  day — when,  the  children  being 
all  in  bed,  we  elders  closed  in  round  the  fire. 

Ursula  and  I  sat  there  longer  alone  than  usual. 

"John  is  late  to-night,"  she  said  more  than  once;  and  I 
could  see  her  start,  listening  to  every  foot  under  the  window, 
every  touch  at  the  door-bell;  not  stirring,  though;  she  knew 
his  foot  and  his  ring  quite  well  always. 

"There  he  is!"  we  both  said  at  once,  much  relieved;  and 
John  came  in. 

Brightness  always  came  in  with  him.  Whatever  cares  he 
had  without — and  they  were  heavy  enough,  God  knows — they 
always  seemed  to  slip  of!  the  moment  he  entered  his  own 
door;  and  whatever  slight  cares  we  had  at  home,  we  put  them 
aside,  as  they  could  not  but  be  put  aside,  nay,  forgotten,  at 
the  sight  of  him. 


240  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Well,  Uncle  Phineas!  Children  all  right,  my  darling?  A 
fire!  I  am  glad  of  it.  Truly,  to-night  is  as  cold  as  November." 

"John,  if  you  have  a  weakness,  it  is  for  fire.  You're  a 
regular  salamander." 

He  laughed — warming  his  hands  at  the  blaze.  "Yes,  I 
would  rather  be  hungry  than  cold,  any  day.  Love,  our  one 
extravagance  is  certainly  coals.  A  grand  fire  this!  I  do  like 
it  so!" 

She  called  him  "foolish;"  but  smoothed  down  with  a  quiet 
kiss  the  forehead  he  lifted  up  to  her  as  she  stood  beside  him, 
looking  as  if  she  would  any  day  have  converted  the  whole 
house  into  fuel  for  his  own  private  and  particular  benefit. 

"Little  ones  all  in  bed,  of  course?" 

"Indeed,  they  would  have  lain  awake  half  the  night — 
those  naughty  boys — talking  of  Longfield.  You  never  saw 
children  so  delighted." 

"Are  they?"  I  thought  the  tone  was  rather  sad,  and  that 
the  father  sat  listening  with  less  interest  than  usual  to  the 
pleasant  little  household  chronicle,  always  wonderful  £nd 
always  new,  which  it  was  his  custom  to  ask  for  and  have, 
night  after  night,  when  he  came  home — saying  it  was  to  him, 
after  his  day's  toil,  like  a  "babbling  o'  green  fields."  Soon  it 
stopped. 

"John,  dear,  you  are  very  tired?" 

"Esther." 

"Have  you  been  very  busy  all  day?" 

"Very  busy." 

I  understood,  almost  as  well  as  his  wife  did,  what  those 
brief  answers  indicated;  so,  stealing  away  to  the  table  where 
Guy's  blurred  copy-book  and  Edwin's  astonishing  addition- 
sums  were  greatly  in  need  of  Uncle  Phineas,  I  left  the  fire-side 
corner  to  those  two.  Soon  John  settled  himself  in  my  cr.sv- 
chair,  and  then  one  saw  how  very  weary  he  was — weary  in  body 
and  soul  alike — weary  as  we  seldom  beheld  Jiim.  It  went  to  my 
heart  to  watch  the  listless  stretch  of  his  large,  strong  frame — 
the  sharp  lines  about  his  mouth — lines  which  ought  not  to 
have  come  there  in  his  two-and-thirty  years.  And  his  eyes — 
they  hardly  looked  like  John's  eyes,  as  they  gazed  in  a  sort  of 
dull  quietude,  too  anxious  to  be  dreamy,  into  the  red  coals — 
and  nowhere  else. 

At  last  he  roused  himself,  and  took  up  his  wife's  work. 

"More  little  coats!    Love,  you  are  always  sewing." 

"Mothers  must,  you  know.    And  I  think  never  did  boys 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  241 

outgrow  their  things  like  our  boys.  It  is  so  pleasant,  too.  If 
only  clothes  did  not  wear  out  so  fast." 

"Ah!"    A  sigh — from  the  very  depth  of  the  father's  heart. 

"Xot  a  bit  too  fast  for  my  clever  fingers,  though,"  said 
Ursula,  quickly.  "Look,  John,  at  this  lovely  braiding.  But 
I'm  not  going  to  do  any  more  of  it.  I  shall  certainly  have  no 
time  to  waste  over  fineries  at  Longfield." 

Her  husband  took  up  the  fanciful  work,  admired  it,  and 
laid  it  down  again.  After  a  pause  he  said: 

"Should  you  be  very  much  disappointed  if — if  we  do  not 
go  to  Longfield,  after  all?" 

"Not  go  to  Longfield!"  The  involuntary  exclamation 
showed  how  deep  her  longing  had  been. 

"Because  I'm  afraid — it's  hard  I  know — but  I'm  afraid  we 
cannot  manage  it.  Are  you  very  sorry?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  frankly  and  truthfully.  "Not  so  much 
for  myself,  but — the  children." 

"Ay,  the  poor  children." 

Ursula  stitched  away  rapidly  for  some  moments,  till  the 
grieved  look  faded  out  of  her  face;  then  she  turned  it,  all 
cheerful  once  more,  to  her  husband.  "Now,  John,  tell  me. 
Xevtr  mind  about  the  children.  Tell  me." 

He  told  her,  as  was  his  habit  at  all  times,  of  some  losses 
which  had  to-day  befallen  him — bad  debts  in  his  business — 
which  would  make  it,  if  not  impracticable,  at  least  imprudent 
to  enter  on  any  new  expenses  that  year.  Nay,  he  must,  if 
possible,  retrench  a  little.  Ursula  listened,  without  question, 
comment,  or  complaint. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  said  at  last,  very  gently. 

"All." 

"Then  never  mind.  I  do  not.  We  will  find  some  other 
pleasures  for  the  children.  We  have  so  many  pleasures — 
ay.  all  of  us,  husband — it  is  not  so  hard  to  give  up  this  one." 

He  said,  in  a  whisper,  low  almost  as  a  lover's,  "I  could  give 
up  anything  in  the  world  but  them  and  thee." 

So,  with  a  brief  information  to  me  at  supper-time — "Uncle 
Phineas,  did  you  hear?  we  cannot  go  to  Longfield" — the  re- 
nunciation was  made,  and  the  subject  ended.  For  this  year,  at 
least,  our  Arcadian  dream  was  over. 

But  John's  troubled  looks  did  not  pass  away.  It  seemed 
as  if  this  night  his  long  toil  had  come  to  that  crisis  when  the 
strongest  man  breaks  down — or  trembles  within  a  hair's- 
breadth  of  breaking  down;  conscious,  too  horribly  conscious, 

16 


242  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

that  if  so,  himself  will  be  the  least  part  of  the  universal  ruin. 
His  face  was  haggard,  his  movements  irritable  and  restless; 
he  started  nervously  at  every  sound.  Sometimes  even  a  hasty 
•word,  and  uneasiness  about  trifles,  showed  how  strong  was 
the  effort  he  made  at  self-control.  Ursula,  usually  by  far  the 
most  quick-tempered  of  the  two,  became  to-night  mild  and 
patient.  She  neither  watched  nor  questioned  him — wise  wom- 
an as  she  was;  she  only  sat  still,  busying  herself  over  her  work, 
speaking  now  and  then  of  little  things,  lest  he  should  notice 
her  anxiety  about  him.  He  did  at  last. 

"Nay,  I  am  not  ill;  do  not  be  afraid.  Only  my  head  aches 
so — let  me  lay  it  here,  as  the  children  do." 

His  wife  made  a  place  for  it  on  her  shoulder;  there  it  rested 
— the  pool  tired  head,  until  gradually  the  hard  and  painful 
expression  of  the  features  relaxed,  and  it  became  John's  own 
natural  face — as  quiet  as  any  of  the  little  faces  on  their  pillows 
upstairs,  whence,  doubtless,  slumber  had  long  banished  all 
anticipation  of  Longfield.  At  last,  he  too,  fell  asleep. 

Ursula  held  up  her  finger,  that  I  might  not  stir.  The 
clock  in  the  corner,  and  the  soft  sobbing  of  the  flame  on  the 
hearth  were  the  only  sounds  in  the  parlor.  She  sewed  on 
quietly  to  the  end  of  her  work;  then  let  it  drop  on  her  lap, 
and  sat  still.  Her  cheek  leaned  itself  softly  against  John's  hair, 
and  in  her  eyes,  which  seemed  so  intently  contemplating  the 
little  frock,  1  saw  large  bright  tears  gather — fall.  But  her 
look  was  serene,  nay,  happy;  as  if  she  thought  of  those  beloved 
ones,  husband  and  children — her  very  own — preserved  to  her 
in  health  and  peace — ay,  and  in  that  which  is  better  than 
either,  the  unity  of  love.  For  that  priceless  blessing,  for  the 
comfort  of  being  his  comfort,  for  the  sweetness  of  bringing 
up  these  his  children  in  the  fear  of  God  and  in  the  honor  of 
their  father — she,  true  wife  and  mother  as  she  was,  would  not 
have  exchanged  the  wealth  of  the  whole  world. 

"What's  that?"  "We  all  started,  as  a  sudden  ring  at  the 
bell  pealed  through  the  house,  waking  John,  and  frightening 
the  very  children  in  their  beds.  All  for  a  mere  letter,  too, 
brought  by  a  lackey  of  Lord  Luxmore's.  Having — somewhat 
indignantly — ascertained  this  fact,  the  mother  ran  upstairs 
to  quiet  her  little  ones.  When  she  came  down,  John  still 
stood  with  the  letter  in  his  hand.  He  had  not  told  me  what 
it  was;  when  I  chanced  to  ask,  he  answered  in  a  low  tone, 
"Presently!"  On  his  wife's  entrance  he  gave  her  the  letter 
udthout  a  word. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  243 

Well  might  it  startle  her  into  a  cry  of  joy.  Truly  the  deal- 
ings of  Heaven  to  us  were  wonderful! 

"Mr.  John  Halifax. 

"Sir:  Your  wife,  Ursula  Halifax,  having  some  time  since  at- 
tained the  age  fixed  by  her  late  father  as  her  majority,  I  will, 
within  a  month  after  date,  pay  over  to  your  order  all  moneys, 
principal  and  interest,  accruing  to  her,  and  hitherto  left  in  my 
hands,  as  trustee,  according  to  the  will  of  the  late  Kenry  March, 
Esquire.  I  am,  sir,  yours,  etc.,  RICHARD  BRITHWOOD." 

"Wonderful — wonderful !" 

It  was  all  I  could  say.  That  one  bad  man,  for  his  own 
purposes,  should  influence  another  bad  man  to  an  act  of  jus- 
tice— and  that  their  double  evil  should  be  made  to  work  out 
our  good!  Also,  that  this  should  come  just  in  our  time  of 
need — when  John's  strength  seemed  ready  to  fail. 

"Oh,  John,  John!  now  you  need  not  work  so  hard!" 

That  was  his  wife's  first  cry,  as  she  clung  to  him  almost  in 
tears. 

He  too  was  a  good  deal  agitated.  This  sudden  lifting  of 
the  burden  made  him  feel  how  heavy  it  had  been;  how  ter- 
rible the  responsibility;  how  sickening  the  fear. 

"Thank  God!  In  any  case,  you  are  quite  safe  now — you 
and  the  children!"  , 

He  sat  down,  very  pale.  His  wife  knelt  beside  him,  and 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck.  I  quietly  went  out  of  the  room. 

When  I  came  in  again,  they  were  standing  by  the  fireside — 
both  cheerful,  as  two  people  to  whom  had  happened  such  un- 
expected good-fortune  might  naturally  be  expected  to  appear. 
I  offered  my  congratulations  in  rather  a  comical  vein  than 
otherwise;  we  all  of  us  had  caught  John's  habit  of  putting 
things  in  a  comic  light  whenever  he  felt  them  keenly. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  rich  man  now;  mind  you  treat  your  brother 
with  extra  respect,  Phineas." 

"And  your  sister,  too — 

"  'For  she  sail  walk  in  silk  attire, 
And  siller  hae  to  spare.' 

She's  quite  young  and  handsome  still,  isn't  she?    How  mag- 
nificent she'll  look  in  that  gray  silk  gown!" 

"John,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!  You — the 
father  of  a  family!  You — that  are  to  be  the  largest  mill- 
owner  at  Enderley " 


244  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

He  looked  at  her  fondly,  half  deprecatingly.  "Not  till  I 
have  made  you  and  the  children  all  safe,  as  I  said." 

"We  are  safe,  quite  safe,  when  we  have  you.  Oh,  Phineas! 
make  him  see  it  as  I  do.  Make  him  understand  that  it  will  bo 
the  happiest  day  in  his  wife's  life  when  she  knows  him  happy 
in  his  heart's  desire." 

We  sat  a  little  while  longer,  talking  over  the  strange  change 
in  our  fortunes;  for  they  wished  to  make  me  feel  that  now, 
as  ever,  what  was  theirs  was  mine;  then  Ursula  took  her  candle 
to  depart. 

"Love!"  John  cried,  calling  her  back  as  she  shut  the  door, 
and  watching  her  stand  there  patient — watching  with  some- 
thing of  the  old  mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "Mrs.  Hali- 
fax, when  shall  I  have  the  honor  of  ordering  your  long-tailed 
gray  ponies?" 


CHAPTEE    XXIII. 

Not  many  weeks  afterward,  we  went  to  live  at  Longfield, 
which  henceforth  became  the  family  home  for  many  years. 

Longfield!  happy  Longfield!  little  nest  of  love,  and  joy, 
and  peace — where  the  children  grew  up,  and  we  grew  old — 
where  season  after  season  brought  some  new  change  ripen- 
ing in  us  and  around  us — where  summer  and  winter,  day  and 
night,  the  hand  of  God's  providence  was  over  our  roof,  bless- 
ing our  goings  out  and  comings  in,  our  basket  and  our  store; 
crowning  us  with  the  richest  blessing  of  all,  that  we  were  made 
a  household  where  "brethren  dwelt  together  in  unity."  Be- 
loved Longfield!  my  heart,  slow  pulsing  as  befits  one  near 
the  grave,  thrills  warm  and  young  as  I  remember  thee! 

Yet  how  shall  I  describe  it — the  familiar  spot;  so  familiar 
that  it  seems  to  need  no  description  at  all. 

It  was  but  a  small  place  when  we  first  came  there.  It  led 
out  of  the  high-road  by  a  field-gate — the  White  Gate;  from 
which  a  narrow  path  wound  down  to  a  stream,  thence  up  a 
green  slope  to  the  house;  a  mere  farm-house,  nothing  more. 
It  had  one  parlor,  three  decent  bedrooms,  kitchen,  and  out- 
houses; we  built  extempore  chambers  out  of  the  barn  and 
cheese-room.  In  one  of  these  the  boys,  Guy  and  Edwin,  slept; 
against  the  low  roof  of  which  the  father  generally  knocked 
his  head  every  morning  when  he  came  to  call  the  lads.  Its 
windows  were  open  all  summer  round,  and  birds  and  bats 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  245 

used  oftentimes  to  fly  in,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  youthful 
inmates. 

Another  infinite  pleasure  to  the  little  folk  was  that,  for 
the  first  year,  the  farm-house  kitchen  was  made  our  dining- 
room.  There,  through  the  open  door,  Edwin's  pigeons, 
Muriel's  two  doves,  and  sometimes  a  stately  hen,  walked  in 
and  out  at  pleasure.  Whether  our  live-stock,  brought  up  in 
the  law  of  kindness,  were  as  well-trained  and  well-behaved  as 
our  children,  I  cannot  tell;  but  certain  it  is  that  we  never 
found  any  harm  from  this  system,  necessitated  by  our  early 
straits  at  Longfield — this  "liberty,  fraternity,  and  equality." 

These  words,  in  themselves  true  and  lovely,  but  wrested 
to  such  false  meaning,  whose  fatal  sound  was  now  dying  out 
of  Europe,  merged  in  the  equally  false  and  fatal  shout  of 
"Gloire!  gloire!"  remind  me  of  an  event  which  I  believe  was 
the  first  that  broke  the  delicious  monotony  of  our  new  life. 

It  was  one  September  morning.  Mrs.  Halifax,  the  children 
and  I  were  down  at  the  stream,  planning  a  bridge  across  it,  and 
a  sort  of  stable,  where  John's  horse  might  be  put  up — the 
mother  had  steadily  resisted  the  long-tailed  gray  ponies.  For 
with  all  the  necessary  improvements  at  Longfield,  with  the 
large  settlement  that  John  insisted  upon  making  on  his  wife 
and  children,  before  he  would  use  in  his  business  any  portion 
of  her  fortune,  we  found  we  were  by  no  means  so  rich  as  to 
make  any  great  change  in  our  way  of  life  advisable.  And, 
after  all,  the  mother's  best  luxuries  were  to  see  her  children 
merry  and  strong,  her  husband's  face  lightened  of  its  care,  and 
to  know  he  was  now  placed  beyond  doubt  in  the  position  he 
had  always  longed  for;  for  was  he  not  this  very  day  gone  to 
sign  the  lease  of  Enderley  Mills? 

Mrs.  Halifax  had  just  looked  at  her  watch,  and  she  and 
I  were  wondering,  with  quite  a  childish  pleasure,  whether  he 
were  not  now  signing  the  important  deed,  when  Guy  came 
running  to  say  a  coach-and-four  was  trying  to  enter  the 
White  Gate. 

"Who  can  it  be?  But  they  must  be  stopped,  or  they'll  spoil 
John's  new  gravel-road  that  he  takes  such  pride  in.  Uncle 
Phineas,  would  you  mind  going  to  see?" 

Who  should  1  see  but  almost  the  last  person  I  expected — 
who  had  not  been  beheld,  hardly  spoken  of,  in  our  household 
these  ten  years — Lady  Caroline  Brithwood,  in  her  traveling- 
habit  of  green  cloth,  her  velvet  riding-hat,  with  its  Prince  of 
Wales'  feathers,  gayer  than  ever — though  her  pretty  face  was 


246  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

withering  under  the  paint,  and  her  lively  manner  grooving 
coarse  and  bold. 

"Is  this  Longfield?  Does  Mr.  Halifax — Mon  Dieu,  Mr. 
Fletcher,  is  that  you?" 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  the  frankest  condescension  and 
in  the  brightest  humor  in  the  world.  She  insisted  on  sending 
on  the  carriage,  and  accompanj'ing  me  down  to  the  stream 
for  a  "surprise" — a  "scene." 

Mrs.  Halifax,  seeing  the  coach  drive  on,  had  evidently  for- 
gotten all  about  it.  She  stood  in  the  little  dell  which  the 
stream  had  made,  Walter  in  her  arms — her  figure  thrown 
back,  so  as  to  poise  the  child's  weight.  Her  right  hand  kept 
firm  hold  of  Guy,  who  was  paddling  barefoot  in  the  stream; 
Edwin,  the  only  one  of  the  boys  who  never  gave  any  trouble, 
was  soberly  digging  away  beside  little  Muriel. 

The  lady  clapped  her  hands.  "JBrava!  bravi-ssima!  a  charm- 
ing family  picture,  Mrs.  Halifax!" 

"Lady  Caroline!" 

Ursula  left  her  children  and  came  to  greet  her  old  acquaint- 
ance whom  she  had  never  once  seen  since  she  was  Ursula 
March.  Perhaps  that  fact  touched  her,  and  it  was  with  a 
kind  of  involuntary  tenderness  that  she  looked  into  the  sickly 
face,  where  all  the  smiles  could  not  hide  the  wrinkles. 

"It  is  many  years  since  we  met;  and  we  are  both  somewhat 
altered,  Cousin  Caroline." 

"You  are,  with  those  three  great  boys.  The  little  girl  yours 
also?  Oh,  yes;  I  remember  William  told  me — poor  little 
thing!"  And  with  uneasy  awe  she  turned  from  our  blind 
Muriel,  our  child  of  peace. 

"Will  you. come  up  to  the  house?  My  husband  has  only 
ridden  over  to  Enderley;  he  will  be  home  soon." 

"And  glad  to  see  me,  I  wonder?  For  I  am  rather  afraid 
of  that  husband  of  yours — eh,  Ursula?  Yet  I  should  greatly 
like  to  stay." 

Ursula  laughed,  and  repeated  the  welcome.  She  was  so 
happy  herself,  she  longed  to  distribute  her  happiness.  They 
walked,  the  children  following,  toward  the  house. 

Under  the  great  walnut-tree,  by  the  sunk  fence  which 
guarded  the  flower-garden  from  the  sheep  and  cows,  Mrs. 
Halifax  stopped  and  pointed  down  the  green  slope  of  the  field, 
across  the  valley,  to  the  wooded  hills  opposite. 

"Isn't  it  a  pretty  view?"  said  Guy,  creeping  up  and  touch- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  247 

ing  the  stranger's  gown.  Our  children  had  lived  too  much  in 
an  atmosphere  of  love  to  know  either  shyness  or  fear. 

"Very  pretty,  my  little  friend." 

"That's  One-tree  Hill.  Father  is  going  to  take  us  all  a 
walk  there  this  afternoon." 

"Do  you  like  going  walks  with  your  father?" 

"Oh,  don't  we!"  An  electric  smile  ran  through  the  whole 
circle.  It  told  enough  of  the  blessed  home-tale. 

Lady  Caroline  laughed  a  sharp  laugh.  "Eh,  my  dear,  I  see 
how  things  are.  You  don't  regret  having  married  John  Hali- 
fax, the  tanner?" 

"Regret!" 

"Nay,  be  not  impetuous.  I  always  said  he  was  a  noble  fel- 
low, so  does  the  earl  now.  And  William,  you  can't  think  what 
a  hero  your  husband  is  to  William." 

"Lord  Ravenel?" 

"Ay,  my  little  brother  that  was — growing  a  young  man 
now — a  frightful  bigot,  wanting  to  make  our  house  as  Catholic 
as  when  two  or  three  of  us  lost  our  heads  for  King  James. 
But  he  is  a  good  boy — poor  William!  I  had  rather  not  talk 
about  him." 

Ursula  inquired  courteously  if  her  cousin  Richard  were 
well. 

"Bah!  I  suppose  he  is;  he  is  always  well.  His  late  as- 
tonishing honesty  to  Mr.  Halifax  cost  him  a  fit  of  gout — mais 
n'importe.  If  they  meet,  I  suppose  all  things  will  be  smooth 
between  them?" 

"My  husband  never  had  any  ill-feeling  to  Mr.  Brithwood." 

"I  should  not  bear  him  an  undying  enmity  if  he  had.  But 
you  see  'tis  election-time,  and  the  earl  wishes  to  put  in  a 
gentleman,  a  friend  of  ours,  for  Kingswell.  Mr.  Halifax  owns 
some  cottages  there,  eh?" 

"Mr.  Fletcher  does.    My  husband  transacts  business " 

"Stop!  stop!"  cried  Lady  Caroline.  "I  don't  understand 
business;  I  only  know  that  they  want  your  husband  to  be 
friendly  with  mine.  Is  this  plain  enough  ?" 

"Certainly;  be  under  no  apprehension.  Mr.  Halifax  never 
bears  malice  against  any  one.  Was  this  the  reason  of  your 
visit,  Lady  Caroline?" 

"Eh — Mon  Dieu!  what  would  become  of  us  if  we  were  all 
as  straightforward  as  you,  Mistress  Ursula?  But  it  sounds 
charming — in  the  country.  No,  my  dear;  I  came — nay,  I 
hardly  know  why.  Probably  because  I  liked  to  come — my 


248  JOHN    HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN. 

usual  reason  for  most  actions.  Is  that  your  salle-a-manger? 
Won't  you  ask  me  to  dinner,  ma  cousine?" 

"Of  course/'  the  mother  said,  though  I  fancied  afterward 
the  invitation  rather  weighed  upon  her  mind,  probably  from 
the  doubt  whether  or  no  John  would  like  it.  But  in  little 
things,  as  in  great,  she  had  always  this  safe  trust  in  him — that 
conscientiously  to  do  what  she  felt  to  be  right  was  the  surest 
\vay  to  be  right  in  her  husband's  eyes. 

So  Lady  Caroline  was  our  guest  for  the  day — a  novel  guest 
— but  she  made  herself  at  once  familiar  and  pleasant.  Guy, 
a  little  gentleman  from  his  cradle,  installed  himself  her  ad- 
miring knight  attendant  everywhere;  Edwin  brought  her  to 
see  his  pigeons;  Walter,  with  sweet,  shy  blushes,  offered  her 
"a  'ittle  f'ower;"  and  the  three,  as  the  greatest  of  all  favors, 
insisted  on  escorting  her  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  beautiful  calf 
not  a  week  old. 

Laughing,  she  followed  the  boys;  telling  them  how  lately 
in  Sicily  she  had  been  presented  to  a  week-old  prince,  son  of 
Louis  Philippe,  the  young  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  the  Princess 
Marie- Amelie.  "And  truly,  children,  he  was  not  half  so  pretty 
as  your  little  calf.  Ursula,  I  am  sick  of  courts  sometimes.  I 
would  turn  shepherdess  myself,  if  we  could  find  a  tolerable 
Arcadia." 

"Is  there  any  Arcadia  like  home?" 

"Home!"  Her  face  expressed  the  utmost  loathing,  fear,  and 
scorn.  I  remember  hearing  that  the  'squire  since  his  return 
from  abroad  had  grown  just  like  his  father;  was  drunk  every 
day  and  all  day  long.  "Is  your  husband  altered,  Ursula  ?  He 
must  be  quite  a  young  man  still.  Oh,  what  it  is  to  be  young." 

"John  looks  much  older,  people  say;  but  I  don't  see  it." 

"Arcadia  again!  Can  such  things  be?  especially  in  Eng- 
land, that  paradise  of  husbands,  where  the  first  husband  in 
the  realm  sets  such  an  illustrious  example?  How  do  you  stay- 
at-home  British  matrons  feel  toward  my  friend,  the  Princess  of 
Wales?" 

"God  help  her,  and  make  her  as  good  a  woman  as  she  is  a 
wronged  and  miserable  wife,"  said  Ursula,  sadly. 

"Query,  Can  a  'good  woman'  be  made  out  of  a  'wronged 
and  miserable  wife?'  If  so,  Mrs.  Halifax,  you  should  cer- 
tainly take  out  a  patent  for  the  manufacture." 

The  subject  touched  too  near  home.  Ursula  wisely  avoided 
it  by  inquiring  if  Lady  Caroline  meant  to  remain  in  England, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  249 

"Cela  depend."  She  turned  suddenly  grave.  "Your  fresh  air 
makes  me  feel  weary.  Shall  we  go  in-doors?" 

Dinner  was  ready  laid  out — a  plain  meal;  since  neither  the 
father  nor  any  of  us  cared  for  table  dainties.  But  I  think 
if  we  had  lived  in  a  hut,  and  fed  off  wooden  platters  on  pota- 
toes and  salt,  our  repast  would  have  been  fair  and  orderly, 
and  our  hut  the  neatest  that  a  hut  could  be.  For  the  mother 
of  the  family  had  in  perfection  almost  the  best  genius  a  woman 
can  have — the  genius  of  tidiness. 

We  were  not  in  the  least  ashamed  of  our  simple  dinner- 
table,  where  no  difference  was  ever  made  for  anybody.  We 
had  little  place,  but  plenty  of  snow-white  napery  and  pretty 
china;  and  what  with  the  scents  of  the  flower-garden  on  one 
side,  and  the  green  waving  of  the  elm-tree  on  the  other,  it  was 
as  good  as  dining  out-of-doors. 

The  boys  were  still  gathered  round  Lady  Caroline,  in  the 
little  closet  of  the  dining-room  where  lessons  were  learned; 
Muriel  sat  as  usual  on  the  door-sill,  petting  one  of  her  doves, 
that  used  to  come  and  perch  on  her  head  and  her  shoulder, 
of  their  own  accord,  when  I  heard  the  child  say  to  herself: 

"Father's  coming." 

"Where  darling?" 

"Up  the  farm-yard  way.  There — he  is  on  the  gravel-walk. 
He  has  stopped;  I  dare  say  it  is  to  pull  some  of  the  jasmine 
that  grows  over  the  well.  Now,  fly  away,  dove!  Father's 
here." 

And  the  next  minute  a  general  shout  echoed  "Father's 
here!" 

He  stood  in  the  door-way,  lifting  one  after  the  other  up 
in  his  arms;  having  a  kiss  and  a  merry  word  for  all — this 
good  father! 

Oh  solemn  name,  which  Deity  himself  claims  and  owns! 
Happy  these  children,  who  in  its  fullest  sense  could  under- 
stand the  word  "father!"  to  whom  from  the  dawn  of  their 
little  lives  their  father  was  what  all  fathers  should  be — the 
truest  representative  here  on  earth  of  that  Father  in  heaven, 
who  is  at  once  justice,  wisdom  and  perfect  love. 

Happy,  too — most  blessed  among  women — the  woman  who 
gave  her  children  such  a  father! 

Ursula  came — for  his  eye  was  wandering  in  search  of  her — 
and  received  the  embrace  without  which  he  never  left  her  or 
returned. 

"All  rightly  settled,  John?" 


250  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

"Quite  settled." 

"I  am  so  glad!"  "With  a  second  kiss,  not  often  bestowed 
in  public,  as  congratulation.  He  was  going  to  tell  more,  when 
Ursula  said,  rather  hesitatingly,  "We  have  a  visitor  to-day." 

Lady  Caroline  came  out  of  her  corner,  laughing.  "You 
did  not  expect  me,  I  see.  Am  I  welcome?" 

"Any  welcome  that  Mrs.  Halifax  has  given  is  also  mine." 

But  John's  manner  though  polite,  was  somewhat  con- 
strained; and  he  felt,  as  it  seemed  to  my  observant  eye,  more 
surprise  than  gratification  in  this  incursion  on  his  quiet  home. 
Also  I  noticed  that  when  Lady  Caroline,  in  the  height  of  her 
condescension,  would  have  Muriel  close  to  her  at  dinner,  he 
involuntarily  drew  his  little  daughter  to  her  accustomed  place 
beside  himself. 

"She  always  sits  here,  thank  you." 

The  table-talk  was  chiefly  between  the  lady  and  her  host; 
she  rarely  talked  to  women  when  a  man  was  to  be  had.  Con- 
versation veered  between  the  Emperor  Napoleon  and  Lord 
Wellington,  Lord  William  Bentinck,  and  Sardinian  policy, 
the  conjugal  squabbles  of  Carlton  House,  and  the  one-absorb- 
ing political  question  of  this  year — Catholic  emancipation. 

"You  are  a  stanch  supporter  of  the  bill,  my  father  says.  Of 
course  you  aid  him  in  the  Kingswell  election  to-morrow  ?" 

"I  can  scarcely  call  it  an  election,"  returned  John,  He 
had  been  commenting  on  it  to  us  that  morning  rather  severely. 
An  election!  it  was  merely  a  talk  in  the  King's  Head  parlor,  a 
nomination,  and  show  of  hands  by  some  dozen  poor  laborers, 
tenants  of  Mr.  Brithwood  and  Lord  Luxmore,  who  got  a  few 
pounds  apiece  for  their  services — and  the  thing  was  done. 

"Who  is  the  nominee,  Lady  Caroline?" 

"A  young  gentleman  of  small  fortune,  but  excellent  parts, 
who  returned  with  us  from  Naples." 

The  lady's  manner  being  rather  more  formal  than  she  gen- 
erally used,  John  looked  up  quickly. 

"The  election  being  to-morrow,  of  course  his  name  is  no 
secret?" 

"Oh,  no!  Vermilye.  Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye.  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"I  have  heard  of  him." 

As  he  spoke,  either  intentionally  or  no,  John  looked  full  at 
Lady  Caroline.  She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  began  playing 
with  her  bracelets.  Both  immediately  quitted  the  subject  of 
Kingswell  election. 


JOHN    HALIFAX.    GENTLEMAN.  251 

Soon  after,  \ve  rose  from  table;  and  Guy,  who  had  all  dinner- 
time fixed  his  admiring  gaze  upon  the  "pretty  lady,"  insisted 
on  taking  her  down  the  garden  and  gathering  for  her  a  mag- 
nificent arum  lily,  the  mother's  favorite  lily.  I  suggested 
gaining  permission  first;  and  was  sent  to  ask  the  question. 

I  found  John  and  his  wife  in  serious,  even  painful  conversa- 
tion. 

"Love,"  he  was  saying,  "I  have  known  it  for  very  long;  but 
if  she  had  not  come  here,  I  would  never  have  grieved  you  by 
telling  it." 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  true,"  cried  Ursula,  warmly.  "The  world 
is  ready  enough  to  invent  cruel  falsehoods  about  us  women." 

"Us  women!  Don't  say  that,  Ursula.  I  will  not  have  my 
wife  named  in  the  same  breath  with  her." 

"John!" 

"I  will  not,  I  say.  You  don't  know  what  it  cost  me  even  to 
see  her  touch  your  hand." 

"John!" 

The  soft  tone  recalled  him  to  his  better  self. 

"Forgive  me !  but  I  would  not  have  the  least  taint  come  near 
this  wife  of  mine.  I  could  not  bear  to  think  of  her  holding 
intercourse  with  a  light  woman — a  woman  false  to  her  hus- 
band." 

"I  do  not  believe  it.  Caroline  was  foolish,  she  was  never 
wicked.  Listen!  if  this  were  true,  how  could  she  be  laughing 
with  our  children  now?  Oh,  John — think — she  has  no  child- 
ren!" 

The  deep  pity  passed  from  Ursula's  heart  to  her  husband's. 
John  clasped  fondly  the  two  hands  that  were  laid  on  his  shoul- 
ders, as,  looking  up  in  his  face,  the  happy  wife  pleaded  silently 
for  one  who  all  the  world  knew  was  so  wronged  and  so  un- 
happy. 

"We  will  wait  a  little  before  we  judge.  Love,  you  are  a  bet- 
ter Christian  than  I." 

All  afternoon  they  both  showed  more  than  courtesy — kind- 
ness, to  this  woman,  at  whom,  as  any  one  out  of  our  retired 
household  would  have  known,  and  as  John  did  know  well — all 
the  world  was  already  pointing  the  finger,  on  account  of  Mr. 
Gerard  Vermilye.  She,  on  her  part,  with  her  chameleon 
power  of  seizing  and  sunning  herself  in  the  delight  of  the  mo- 
ment, was  in  a  state  of  the  highest  enjoyment.  She  turned 
"shepherdess,"  fed  the  poultry  with  Edwin,  pulled  off  her  jew- 
eled ornaments  and  gave  them  to  Walter  for  playthings;  nay, 


252  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

she  even  washed  off  her  rouge  at  the  spring,  and  came  in  with 
faint  natural  roses  upon  her  faded  cheeks.  So  happy  she 
seemed,  so  innocently,  childishly  happy,  that  more  than  once  I 
saw  John  and  Ursula  exchange  satisfied  looks,  rejoicing  that 
they  had  followed  after  the  divine  charity  which  "thinketh  no 
evil." 

After  tea  all  turned  out,  as  was  our  wont  on  summer  even- 
ings; the  children  playing  about;  while  the  father  and  mother 
sstrolled  up  and  down  the  sloping  field-path,  arm-in-arm  like 
lovers,  or  sometimes  he  fondly  leaning  upon  her.  Thus  they 
would  walk  and  talk  together  in  the  twilight  for  hours. 

Lady  Caroline  pointed  to  them.  Look!  Adam  and  Eve 
modernized;  Baucis  and  Philemon  when  they  were  young.  Bon 
Dieu!  what  it  is  to  be  young?" 

She  said  this  in  a  gasp,  as  if  wild  with  terror  of  the  days  that 
were  coming  upon  her — the  dark  days. 

"People  are  always  young,"  I  answered,  "who  love  one  an- 
other as  these  do." 

"Love!  what  an  old-fashioned  word.  I  hate  it!  It  is  so — 
what  would  you  say  in  English? — so  dechirant.  I  would  not 
cultivate  une  grande  passion  for  the  world." 

I  smiled  at  the  idea  of  the  bond  between  Air.  and  Mrs.  Hali- 
fax taking  the  Frenchified  character  of  "une  grande  passion." 

"But  home  love,  married  love,  love  among  children  and  at 
the  fireside — you  believe  in  that?" 

She  turned  upon  me  her  beautiful  eyes;  they  had  a  scared 
look,  like  a  bird's  driven  right  into  the  fowler's  net.  "C'est 
impossible — impossible!" 

The  word  hissed  itself  out  between  her  shut  teeth—  "i>n  - 
possible."  Then  she  walked  quickly  on  and  was  her  lively 
self  once  more. 

When  the  evening  closed,  and  the  younger  children  were 
gone  to  bed,  she  became  rather  restless  about  the  non-appear- 
ance of  her  coach.  At  last  a  lackey  arrived  on  foot.  She  an- 
grily inquired  "why  a  carriage  had  not  been  sent  for  her." 

"Master  didn't  give  orders,  my  lady,"  answered  the  man, 
somewhat  rudely. 

Lady  Caroline  turned  pale — with  anger  or  fear — perhaps 
both.  ' 

"You  have  not  properly  answered  your  mistress'  question," 
said  Mr.  Halifax. 

"Master  says,  sir — begging  my  lady's  pardon  for  repeating  it 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  263 

— but  he  says,  'My  lady  went  out  against  his  will,  and  she  may 
come  home  when  and  how  she  likes/ }: 

"My  lady"  burst  out  laughing,  and  laughed  violently  and 
long. 

"Tell  him  I  will.  Be  sure  you  tell  him  I  will.  It  is  the 
last  and  the  easiest  obedience." 

John  sent  the  lackey  out  of  the  room;  and  Ursula  said 
something  about  "not  speaking  thus  before  a  servant." 

"Before  a  servant?  Why,  my  dear,  we  furnish  entertain- 
ment for  our  whole  establishment,  my  husband  and  I.  We 
are  at  the  Mythe  what  the  Prince  Regent  and  the  Princess  oi' 
Wales  are  to  the  county  at  large.  We  divide  our  people  be- 
tween us;  I  fascinate — he  bribes.  Ha!  ha!  Well  done,  Eich- 
ard  Brithwood!  I  may  come  home  'when  and  how  I  like!' 
Truly,  I'll  use  that  kind  permission." 

Her  eyes  glittered  with  an  evil  fire;  her  cheeks  were  hot  and 
red. 

"Mrs.  Halifax,  I  shall  be  thrown  on  your  hospitality  for  an 
hour  or  two  longer.  Could  you  send  a  letter  for  me?" 

"To  your  husband?     Certainly." 

"My  husband?  Never! — yes,  to  my  husband."  The  first 
part  of  the  sentence  was  full  of  fierce  contempt;  the  latter 
smothered  and  slowly  desperate.  "Tell  me,  Ursula,  what 
constitutes  a  man  one's  husband?  Brutality,  tyranny — the 
tyranny  which  the  law  sanctions?  Or  kindness,  sympathy, 
devotion,  everything  that  makes  life  beautiful — everything 
that  constitutes  happiness  and " 

"Sin." 

The  word  in  her  ear  was  so  low,  that  she  started  as  if  con- 
science only  had  uttered  it — conscience,  to  whom  only  her  in- 
tents were  known. 

John  came  forward,  speaking  gravely,  but  not  unkindly. 

"Lady  Caroline,  I  am  deeply  grieved*  that  this  should  have 
happened  in  my  house,  and  through  your  visiting  us  against 
your  husband's  will." 

"His  will!" 

"Pardon  me;  but  I  think  a  wife  is  bound  to  the  very  last  to 
obey  in  all  things  not  absolutely  wrong,  her  husband's  will. 
I  am  glad  you  thought  of  writing  to  Mr.  Brithwood." 

She  shook  her  head,  in  mocking  deniel. 

"May  I  ask,  then — since  I  am  to  have  the  honor  of  sending 
it — to  whom  is  this  letter?" 

'•'To "    I  think  she  would  have  told  a  falsehood,  if 


264  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

John's  eyes  had  not  been  so  keenly  fixed  upon  her.  "To  a 
friend." 

"Friends  are  at  all  times  dangerous  to  a  lady  who " 

"Hates  her  husband — ha!  ha!     Especially  male  friends." 

"Especially  male  friends." 

Here  Guy,  who  had  lingered  out  of  his  little  bed  most  un- 
lawfully— hovering  about,  ready  to  do  any  chivalrous  duty  to 
his  idol  of  the  day — came  up  to  bid  her  good-night,  and  held 
up  his  rosy  mouth,  eagerly. 

"I — kiss  a  little  child!  I!"  and  from  her  violent  laughter, 
she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

The  mother  signed  me  to  carry  Guy  away;  she  and  John 
took  Lady  Caroline  into  the  parlor,  and  shut  the  door. 

Of  course,  I  did  not  then  learn  what  passed — but  I  did  af- 
terward. 

Lady  Caroline's  tears  were  evanescent,  like  all  her  emotions. 
Soon  she  became  composed — asked  again  for  writing  materials 
— then  countermanded  the  request. 

"No,  I  will  wait  till  to-morrow.  Ursula,  you  will  take  me 
in  for  the  night?" 

Mrs.  Halifax  looked  appealingly  to  her  husband,  but  he 
gave  no  assent. 

"Lady  Caroline  you  should  willingly  stay,  were  it  not,  as 
you  must  know,  so  fatal  a  step.  In  your  position,  you  should 
be  most  careful  to  leave  the  world  and  your  husband  no  single 
handle  against  you." 

"Mr.  Halifax,  what  right  have  you " 

"None,  save  that  of  an  honest  man,  who  sees  a  woman  cruel- 
ly wronged,  and  desperate  with  her  wrong;  who  would  thank- 
fully save  her  if  he  could." 

"Save  me?     From  what — or  whom?" 

"From  Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye,  who  is  now  waiting  down  the 
road,  and  whom,  if  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood  once  flies  to,  or 
even  sees,  at  this  crisis,  she  loses  her  place  among  honorable 
English  matrons  forever." 

John  said  this,  with  no  air  of  virtuous  anger  or  contempt, 
but  as  the  simple  statement  of  a  fact.  The  convicted  woman 
dropped  her  face  between  her  hands. 

Ursula,  greatly  shocked,  was  some  time  before  she  spoke. 

"Is  it  true,  Caroline?" 

"What  is  true?" 

"That  which  my  husband  has  heard  of  you?" 

"Yes!"  she  cried  springing  up  and  dashing  back  her  beauti- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  255 

ful  hair — beautiful  still,  though  she  must  have  been  five  or 
six  and  thirty  at  least.  "Yes,  it  is  true;  it  shall  be  true!  I 
shall  break  my  bonds,  and  live  the  life  I  was  made  for.  I 
would  have  done  it  long  ago,  but  for — no  matter.  Why,  Ur- 
sula, he  adores  me;  young  and  handsome  as  he  is,  he  adores  me. 
He  will  give  me  my  youth  back  again,  ay,  he  will." 

And  she  sang  out  a  French  chanson,  something  about  "la 
liberte  et  ses  plaisirs,  lajeunesse  I' amour." 

The  mother  grew  sterner — any  such  wife  and  mother  would. 
Then  and  there,  compassion  might  have  died  out  of  even  her 
good  heart,  had  it  not  been  for  the  sudden  noise  overhead  of 
children's  feet — children's  chattering.  Once  more  the  pitiful 
thought  came — "She  has  no  children." 

"Caroline,"  she  said,  catching  her  gown  as  she  ^passed, 
"when  I  was  with  you,  you  had  a  child  which  only  breathed 
and  died.  It  died  spotless.  When  you  die,  how  dare  you 
meet  that  little  baby?" 

The  singing  changed  to  sobbing.  "I  had  forgotten.  My 
little  baby!  Oh,  mon  Dieu!  mon  Dieu!" 

Mrs.  Halifax,  taking  in  earnest  those  meaningless  French 
ejaculations,  whispered  something  about  Him  who  alone  can 
comfort  and  help  us  all. 

"Him!  I  never  knew  Him,  if  indeed  He  be.  No,  no,  there 
is  no  after-life." 

Ursula  turned  away  in  horror.  "John,  what  shall  we  do 
with  her?  No  home! — no  husband! — no  God!" 

"He  never  leaves  Himself  without  a  witness.     Look,  love." 

The  wretched  woman  sat  rocking  to  and  fro — weeping  and 
wringing  her  hands.  "It  was  cruel — cruel!  You  should  not 
have  spoken  about  my  baby.  Now " 

"Tell  me — just  one  word — I  will  not  believe  anybody's  word 
except  your  own.  Caroline,  are  you  still  innocent?" 

Lady  Caroline  shrank  from  her  touch.  "Don't  hold  me  so. 
You  may  have  one  standard  of  virtue,  I  another." 

"Still,  tell  me." 

"And  if  I  did,  you,  an  'honorable  English  matron' — was  not 
that  your  husband's  word? — would  turn  from  me,  most 
likely?" 

"She  will  not,"  John  said.  "She  has  been  happy,  and  you 
most  miserable." 

"Oh,  most  miserable." 

That  bitter  groan  went  to  both  their  hearts,  Ursula  leaned 
over  her — herself  almost  in  tears.  "Cousin  Caroline,  John 


256  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

says  true — I  will  not  turn  from  you.  I  know  you  have  been 
sinned  against — cruelly — cruelly.  Only  tell  me  that  you 
yourself  have  not  sinned." 

"1  have  'sinned/  as  you  call  it." 

Ursula  started — drew  closer  to  her  husband.  Neither 
spoke. 

"Mrs.  Halifax  why  don't  you  take  away  your  hand?" 

"I?— let  me  think.     This  is  terrible.     Oh,  John!" 

Again  Lady  Caroline  said  in  her  sharp,  bold  tone,  "Take 
away  your  hand!" 

"Husband,  shall  I?" 

"No." 

For  some  minutes  they  stood  together,  both  silent,  with  this 
poor  woman.  I  call  her  "poor,"  as  did  they;  knowing  that  if 
a  sufferer  needs  pity,  how  tenfold  more  does  a  sinner. 

John  spoke  first:  "Cousin  Caroline."  She  lifted  up  her 
head  in  amazement.  "We  are  your  cousins,  and  we  wish  to  be 
your  friends,  my  wife  and  I.  Will  you  listen  to  us?" 

She  sobbed  still,  but  less  violently. 

"Only,  first — you  must  promise  to  renounce  forever  guilt 
and  disgrace." 

"I  feel  it  none.  He  is  an  honorable  gentleman — he  lovo? 
me  and  I  love  him.  That  is  the  true  marriage.  No,  I  will 
make  you  no  such  promise.  Let  me  go." 

"Pardon  me,  not  yet.  I  cannot  suffer  my  wife's  kinswoman 
to  elope  from  my  own  house  without  trying  to  prevent  it." 

"Prevent! — sir! — Mr.  Halifax!  You  forget  who  you  arc 
and  who  I  am — the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore." 

"Were  you  the  king's  daughter  it  would  make  no  difference. 
I  will  save  you  in  spite  of  yourself,  if  I  can.  I  have  already 
spoken  to  Mr.  Yermilye,  and  he  has  gone  aAvay." 

"Gone  away — the  only  living  soul  that  loves  me!  Gone 
away!  I  must  follow  him — quick — quick!" 

"You  cannot.  He  is  miles  distant  by  this  time.  He  is 
afraid  lest  this  story  should  come  out  to-morrow  at  Kingswell; 
and  to  be  an  M.  P.  and  safe  from  arrest  is  better  to  Mr.  Yer- 
milye than  even  yourself,  Lady  Caroline." 

John's  wife,  unaccustomed  to  hear  him  take  that  cool, 
worldly,  half-sarcastic  tone,  turned  to  him  somewhat  reproach- 
fully; but  he  judged  best.  For  the  moment,  this  tone  had 
more  weight  with  the  woman  of  the  world  than  any  homilies. 
She  began  to  be  afraid  of  Mr.  Halifax.  Impulse,  rather  than 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  257 

resolution,  guided  her,  and  even  these  impulses  were  feeble 
and  easily  governed.  She  sat  down  again,  muttering: 

"My  will  is  free.     You  cannot  control  me." 

"Only  so  far  as  my  conscience  justifies  me  in  preventing  a 
crime." 

"A  crime?" 

"It  would  be  such.  No  sophistries  of  French  philosophy  on 
your  part,  no  cruelt}T  on  your  husband's,  can  abrogate  the  one 
law,  which,  if  you  disown  it  as  God's,  is  still  man's — being 
necessary  for  the  peace,  honor,  and  safety  of  society." 

"What  law?" 

"Thou  shalt  not  commit  adultery." 

People  do  not  often  utter  this  plain  Bible  word.  It  made 
Ursula  start,  even  when  spoken  solemnly  by  her  own  husband. 
It  tore  from  the  self -convicted  woman  all  the  sentimental  dis- 
guises with  which  the  world  then  hid,  and  still  hides,  its  cor- 
ruptions. Her  sin  arose  and  stared  her  blackly  in  the  face — 
as  sin.  She  cowered  before  it. 

"Am  I  that?  And  William  will  know  it.  Poor  William!" 
She  looked  up  at  Ursula — for  the  first  time  with  the  guilty 
look;  hitherto,  it  had  been  only  one  of  pain  or  despair.  "No- 
body knows  it,  except  you.  Don't  tell  William.  I  would 
have  gone  long  ago,  but  for  him.  He  is  a  good  boy;  don't  let 
him  guess  his  sister  was " 

She  left  the  word  unspoken.  Shame  seemed  to  crush  her 
down  to  the  earth;  shame,  the  precursor  of  saving  penitence — 
at  least,  John  thought  so.  He  quitted  the  room,  leaving  her 
to  the  ministry  of  his  other  self,  his  wife.  As  he  sat  down 
with  me,  and  told  me  in  a  few  words  what  indeed  I  had  al- 
ready more  than  half  guessed,  I  could  not  but  notice  the  ex- 
pression of  his  own  face.  And  I  recognized  how  a  man  can  be 
at  once  righteous  to  judge,  tender  to  pity,  and  strong  to  save; 
a  man,  the  principle  of  whose  life  is,  as  John's  was — that  it 
should  be  made  "conformable  to  the  image"  of  Him,  who  was 
Himself  on  earth  the  image  of  God. 

Ursula  came  out  and  called  her  husband.  They  talked  for 
*ome  time  together.  I  guessed,  from  what  I  heard,  that  she 
wished  Lady  Caroline  to  stay  the  night  here,  but  that  he  with 
better  judgment  was  urging  the  necessity  of  her  retttrnmg  to 
the  protection  of  her  husband's  home  without  an  hour's  delay. 

"It  is  her  only  chance  of  saving  her  reputation.  She  must 
do  it,  at  least  temporarily,  till  some  better  measure  can  be 
taken.  Tell  her  so,  Ursula." 

17 


258  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

After  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Halifax  came  out  again. 

"I  have  persuaded  her  at  last.  She  says  she  will  do  what- 
ever you  think  best.  Only  before  she  goes  she  wants  to  look 
at  the  children.  May  she?" 

"Poor  soul!  yes,"  John  murmured,  turning  away. 

Stepping  out  of  sight,  we  saw  the  poor  lady  pass  through 
the  quiet,  empty  house  into  the  children's  bedroom.  We 
heard  her  smothered  sob,  at  times,  the  whole  way. 

Then  I  went  down  to  the  stream,  and  helped  John  to  saddle 
his  horse,  with  Mrs.  Halifax's  old  saddle;  in  her  girlish  days, 
Ursula  used  to  be  very  fond  of  riding. 

"She  can  ride  back  again  from  the  Mythe,"  said  John. 

"She  wishes  to  go,  and  it  is  best  she  should;  so  that  nothing 
need  be  said,  except  that  Lady  Caroline  spent  a  day  at  Long- 
field,  and  that  my  wife  and  I  accompanied  her  safe  home." 

While  he  spoke,  the  two  ladies  came  down  the  field-path.  I 
fancied  I  heard,  even  now,  a  faint  echo  of  that  peculiarly  sweet 
and  careless  laugh,  indicating  how  light  were  all  impressions 
on  a  temperament  so  plastic  and  weak — so  easily  remolded  by 
the  very  next  influence  that  fate  might  throw  across  her  peril- 
ous way. 

John  Halifax  assisted  her  on  horseback,  took  the  bridle  un- 
der one  arm  and  gave  the  other  to  his  wife.  Thus  they  passed 
up  the  path,  and  out  at  the  White  Gate. 

I  delayed  a  little  while,  listening  to  the  wind,  and  to  the 
prattle  of  the  stream,  that  went  singing  along  in  daylight  or 
in  darkness  by  our  happy  home  at  Longfield.  And  I  sighed 
to  myself:  "Poor  Lady  Caroline!" 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Midnight  though  it  was  I  sat  up  until  John  and  his  wife 
came  home.  They  said  scarcely  anything  but  straightway  re- 
tired. In  the  morning  all  went  on  in  the  house  as  usual  and 
no  one  ever  knew  of  this  night's  episode,  except  us  three. 

In  the  morning,  Guy  looked  wistfully  around  him,  asking 
for  the  "pretty  lady;"  and  being  told  that  she  was  gone,  and 
that  he  would  not  be  likely  to  see  her  again,  seemed  disap- 
pointed for  a  minute;  but  soon  he  went  down  to  play  at  the 
stream,  and  forgot  all. 

Once  or  twice  I  fancied  the  mother's  clear  voice  about  the 


JOHN  HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  259 

house  was  rarer  than  its  wont;  that  her  quick,  active,  cheerful 
presence — penetrating  every  nook,  and  visiting  every  creature, 
as  with  the  freshness  of  an  April  wind — was  this  day  softer 
and  sadder;  but  she  did  not  say  anything  to  me,  nor  I  to  her. 

John  had  ridden  off  early — to  the  flour-mill,  which  he  still 
kept  on,  together  with  the  house  at  Norton  Bury — he  always 
disliked  giving  up  any  old  associations.  At  dinner-time  he 
came  home,  saying  he  was  going  out  again  immediately. 

Ursula  looked  uneasy.  A  few  minutes  after,  she  followed 
me  under  the  walnut-tree,  where  I  was  sitting  with  Muriel, 
and  asked  me  if  I  would  go  with  John  to  Kingswell. 

"The  election  takes  place  to-day,  and  he  thinks  it  right  to 
be  there.  He  will  meet  Mr.  Brithwood  and  Lord  Luxmore; 
and  though  there  is  not  the  slightest  need — my  husband  can 
do  all  that  he  has  to  do  alone — still,  for  my  own  satisfaction,  I 
would  like  his  brother  to  be  near  him." 

They  invariably  called  me  their  brother  now;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  name  had  been  mine  by  right  of  blood  always. 

Of  course,  I  went  to  Kingswell,  riding  John's  brown  mare, 
he  himself  walking  by  my  side.  It  was  not  often  that  we  were 
thus  alone  together,  and  I  enjoyed  it  much.  All  the  old  days 
seemed  to  come  back  again  as  we  passed  along  the  quiet  roads 
and  green  lanes,  just  as  when  we  were  boys  together,  when  I 
had  none  I  cared  for  but  David,  and  David  cared  only  for  me. 
The  natural  growth  of  things  had  made  a  difference  in  this, 
but  our  affection  had  changed  its  outward  form  only,  not  its 
essence.  I  often  think  that  all  loves  and  friendships  need  a 
certain  three  days'  burial  before  we  can  be  quite  sure  of  their 
truth  and  immortality.  Mine — it  happened  just  after  John's 
marriage,  and  I  may  confess  it  now — had  likewise  its  entomb- 
ment, bitter  as  brief.  Many  cruel  hours  sat  I  in  darkness, 
weeping  at  the  door  of  its  sepulcher,  thinking  that  I  should 
never  see  it  again;  but,  in  the  dawn  of  the  morning  it  rose,  and 
I  met  it  in  the  desolate  garden,  different,  yet  the  very  same. 
And  after  that,  it  walked  with  me  continually,  secure  and  im- 
perishable evermore. 

I  rode,  and  John  sauntered  beside  me  along  the  foot-path, 
now  and  then  plucking  a  leaf  or  branch  off  the  hedge,  and 
playing  with  it,  as  was  his  habit  when  a  lad.  Often  I  caught 
the  old  smile — not  one  of  his  three  boys,  not  even  handsome 
Guy,  had  their  father's  smile. 

He  was  telling  me  about  Enderley  Mill,  and  all  his  plans 
there,  in  the  which  he  seemed  very  happy.  At  last  his  long 


260  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

life  of  duty  was  merging  into  the  life  he  loved.  He  looked  as 
proud  and  pleased  as  a  boy,  in  talking  of  the  new  inventions 
he  meant  to  apply  in  cloth-weaving;  and  how  he  and  his  wife 
had  agreed  together  to  live  for  some  years  to  come  at  little 
Longfield,  strictly  within  their  settled  income,  that  all  the  re- 
mainder of  his  capital  might  go  to  the  improvement  of  Ender- 
ley  Mills  and  mill  people. 

"I  shall  be  master  of  nearly  a  hundred  men  and  women. 
Think  what  good  we  may  do!  She  has  half  a  dozen  plans  on 
foot  already — bless  her  dear  heart!" 

It  was  easy  to  guess  whom  he  referred  to — the  one  who 
went  hand-in-hand  with  him  in  everything. 

"Was  the  dinner  in  the  barn,  next  Monday,  her  plan,  too?" 

"Partly.  I  thought  we  would  begin  a  sort  of  yearly  festi- 
val for  the  old  tan-yard  people,  and  those  about  the  flour-mill, 
and  the  Kingswell  tenants — ah,  Phineas,  wasn't  I  right  about 
those  Kingswell  folk?" 

These  were  about  a  dozen  poor  families,  whom,  when  our 
mortgage  fell  in,  he  had  lured  out  of  Sally  Watkins'  miserable 
alley  to  these  old  houses,  where  they  had  at  least  fresh  coun- 
try air,  and  space  enough  to  live  wholesomely  and  decently, 
instead  of  herding  together  like  pigs  in  a  sty. 

"You  ought  to  be  proud  of  your  tenants,  Phineas.  1  assure 
you,  they  form  quite  a  contrast  to  their  neighbors,  who  are 
Lord  Luxmore's." 

"And  his  voters,  likewise,  I  suppose?  the  'free  and  inde- 
pendent burgesses'  who  are  to  send  Mr.  Vermilye  to  Parlia- 
ment?" 

"If  they  can,"  said  John,  biting  his  lip  with  that  resolute 
half -combative  air  which  I  now  saw  in  him  at  times,  roused  by 
things  which  continually  met  him  in  his  dealings  with  the 
world — things  repugnant  alike  to  his  feelings  and  his  princi- 
ples, but  which  he  had  still  to  endure,  not  having  risen  high 
enough  to  oppose,  single-handed,  the  great  mass  of  social  cor- 
ruption which  at  this  crisis  of  English  history  kept  gathering 
and  gathering,  until  out  of  the  very  horror  and  loathsomeness 
of  it,  an  outcry  for  purification  arose. 

"Do  you  know,  Phineas,  I  might  last  week  have  sold  your 
houses  for  double  price?  They  are  valuable,  this  election  year, 
since  your  five  tenants  are  the  only  voters  in  Kingswell  who 
are  not  likewise  tenants  of  Lord  Luxmore.  Don't  you  see  how 
the  matter  stands?" 

It  was  not  difficult,  for  that  sort  of  game  was  played  all  over 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  261 

England,  connived  at,  or  at  least  winked  at,  by  those  who  had 
political  influence  to  sell  or  obtain,  until  the  Keform  Bill 
opened  up  the  election  system  in  all  its  rottenness  and  enor- 
mity. 

"Of  course  I  knew  you  would  not  sell  your  houses;  and  I 
shall  use  every  influence  I  have  to  prevent  your  tenants  sell- 
ing their  votes.  Whatever  may  be  the  consequence,  the  sort 
of  thing  that  this  Kingswell  election  bids  fair  to  be  is  what  an 
honest  Englishman  ought  to  set  his  face  against  and  prevent  if 
he  can." 

"Can  you?" 

"I  do  not  feel  sure,  but  I  mean  to  try.  First,  for  simple 
right  and  conscience;  secondly,  because  if  Mr.  Vermilye  is  not 
saved  from  arrest  by  being  placed  in  Parliament,  he  will  be 
outlawed  and  driven  safe  out  of  the  country.  You  see?" 

Ay,  I  did,  only  too  well.  Though  I  foresaw  that  whatever 
John  was  about  to  do,  it  must  necessarily  be  something  that 
would  run  directly  counter  to  Lord  Luxmore — and  he  had 
only  just  signed  the  lease  of  Enderley  Mills.  Still,  if  right  to 
be  done,  he  ought  to  do  it  at  all  risks,  at  all  costs;  and  I  knew 
his  wife  would  say  so. 

We  came  to  the  foot  of  Kingswell  Hill  and  saw  the  little 
hamlet,  with  its  gray  old  houses,  its  small,  ancient  church, 
guarded  by  enormous  yew-trees,  and  clothed  with  ivy  that  in- 
dicated centuries  of  growth. 

A  carriage  overtook  us;  in  it  were  two  gentlemen,  one  of 
whom  bowed  in  a  friendly  manner  to  John.  He  returned  it. 

"This  is  well;  I  shall  have  one  honest  gentleman  to  deal  with 
to-day." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Sir  Ealph  Oldtower,  from  whom  I  bought  Longfield.  An 
excellent  man — I  like  him — even  his  fine  old  Eoman  face,  like 
one  of  his  knightly  ancestors  on  the  tomb  of  KingsAvell  church. 
There's  something  pleasant  about  his  stiff  courtesy  and  his 
stanch  Toryism;  for  he  fully  believes  in  it,  and  acts  up  to  his 
belief.  A  true  English  gentleman,  and  I  respect  him." 

"Yet,  John,  Norton  Bury  calls  you  a  democrat/' 

"So  I  am,  for  I  belong  to  the  people.  But  I  nevertheless 
uphold  a  true  aristocracy — the  best  men  of  the  country:  do 
you  remember  our  Greeks  of  old?  These  ought  to  govern, 
and  will  govern,  one  day,  whether  their  patent  of  nobility  be 
birth  and  titles,  or  only  honesty  and  brains." 

Thus  he  talked  on,  and  I  liked  to  hear  him,  for  talking  was 


262  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

rare  in  his  busy  life  of  constant  action.  I  liked  to  observe 
how  during  these  ten  years  his  mind  had  brooded  over  many 
things;  how  it  had  grown,  strengthened,  and  settled  itself,  en- 
larging both  its  vision  and  its  aspirations;  as  a  man  does,  who, 
his  heart  at  rest  in  a  happy  home,  has  time  and  will  to  look  out 
from  thence  into  the  troublous  world  outside,  ready  to  do  his 
work  there  likewise.  That  John  was  able  to  do  it — ay,  beyond 
most  men — few  would  doubt  who  looked  into  his  face;  strong 
with  the  strength  of  an  intellect  which  owed  all  its  develop- 
ment to  himself  alone;  calm  with  the  wisdom  which,  if  a  man 
is  ever  to  be  wise,  comes  to  him  after  he  has  crossed  the  line  of 
thirty  years.  In  that  face,  where  day  by  day  Time  was  writ- 
ing its  fit  lesson — beautiful,  because  they  were  so  fit — I  ceased 
to  miss  the  boyish  grace,  and  rejoiced  in  the  manhood  present, 
in  the  old  age  that  was  to  be. 

It  seemed  almost  too  short  a  journey,  when,  putting  his 
hand  on  the  mare's  bridle — the  creature  loved  him,  and 
turned  to  lick  his  arm  the  minute  he  came  near — John  stopped 
me  to  see  the  views  from  across  Kingswell  church-yard. 

"Look,  what  a  broad  valley,  rich  in  woods,  and  meadow- 
land,  and  corn.  How  quiet  and  blue  lie  the  Welsh  hills  far 
away!  It  does  one  good  to  look  at  them.  Nay,  it  brings  back 
a  little  bit  of  me  which  rarely  comes  uppermost  now,  as  it 
used  to  come  long  ago,  when  you  read  your  namesake,  and 
Shakespeare,  and  that  Anonymous  Friend  who  has  since  made 
such  a  noise  in  the  world.  I  delight  in  him  still!  Think  of 
a  man  of  business  liking  Coleridge." 

"I  don't  see  why  he  should  not/' 

"!N"or  I.  Well,  my  poetic  tastes  may  come  out  more  at  En- 
derley.  Or  perhaps  when  I  am  an  old  man,  and  have  fought 
the  good  fight,  and — halloo  there!  Matthew  Hales,  have  they 
made  you  drunk  already?" 

The  man — he  was  an  old  workman  of  ours — touched  his 
hat,  and  tried  to  walk  steadily  past  "the  master,"  who  looked 
at  once  both  stern  and  sad. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  so!  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  voter  in  all 
Kingswell  who  has  not  got  a  bribe." 

"It  is  the  same  everywhere,"  I  said.  "What  can  one  man 
do  against  it  single-handed?" 

"Single-handed  or  not,  every  man  ought  to  do  what  he  can. 
And  no  man  knows  how  much  he  can  do  until  he  tries." 

So  saying  he  went  into  the  large  parlor  of  the  Luxmore 
Arms,  where  the  election  was  going  on. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  263 

A  very  simple  thing,  that  election!  Sir  Ealph  Oldtower, 
who  was  sheriff,  sat  at  a  table,  with  his  son,  the  grave-looking 
young  man  who  had  been  with  him  in  the  carriage;  near  them 
were  Mr.  Brithwood,  of  the  Mythe,  and  the  Earl  of  Luxmore. 

The  room  was  pretty  well  filled  with  farmers'  laborers  and 
the  like.  We  entered,  making  little  noise;  but  John's  head 
was  taller  than  most  heads  present;  the  sheriff  saw  him  at 
once,  and  bowed  courteously.  So  did  young  Mr.  Herbert  Old- 
tower,  so  did  the  Earl  of  Luxmore.  Richard  Brithwood  alone 
took  no  notice,  but  turned  his  back  and  looked  another  way. 

It  was  now  many  years  since  I  had  seen  the  'squire,  Lady 
Caroline's  husband.  He  had  fulfilled  the  promise  of  his 
youth,  and  grown  into  a  bloated,  coarse-featured  middle-aged 
man;  such  a  man  as  one  rarely  meets  with  nowadays;  for  even 
I,  Phineas  Fletcher,  have  lived  to  see  so  great  a  change  in 
manners  and  morals,  that  intemperance,  instead  of  being  the 
usual  characteristic  of  a  "gentleman,"  has  become  a  rare  fail- 
ing, a  universally  contemned  disgrace. 

"Less  noise  there!"  growled  Mr.  Brithwood.  "Silence,  you 
fellows  at  the  door!  ISTow,  Sir  Ealph,  let's  get  the  business 
over,  and  be  back  for  dinner." 

Sir  Ralph  turned  his  stately  gray  head  to  the  light,  put  on 
his  gold  spectacles,  and  began  to  read  the  writ  of  election.  As 
he  finished,  the  small  audience  set  up  a  feeble  cheer. 

The  sheriff  acknowledged  it,  then  leaned  over  the  table, 
talking  with  rather  frosty  civility  to  Lord  Luxmore.  Their 
acquaintance  seemed  solely  that  of  business.  People  whis- 
pered that  Sir  Ralph  never  forgot  that  the  Oldtowers  were 
crusaders  when  the  Ravenels  were — nobody.  Also,  the  baro- 
net, whose  ancestors  were  all  honorable  men  and  stainless 
women,  found  it  hard  to  overlook  a  certain  royal  bar-sinister, 
which  had  originated  the  Luxmore  earldom,  together  with  a 
few  other  blots  which  had  tarnished  that  escutcheon  since. 
So  folks  said;  but  probably  Sir  Ralph's  high  principle  was  at 
least  as  strong  as  his  pride,  and  that  the  real  cause  of  his  dis- 
like was  founded  on  the  too  well-known  character  of  the  Earl 
of  Luxmore. 

They  ceased  talking;  the  sheriff  rose  and  briefly  stated  that 
Richard  Brithwood,  Esquire,  of  the  Mythe,  would  nominate  a 
candidate. 

The  candidate  was  Gerard  Vermilye,  Esquire;  at  the  men- 
tion of  whose  name  one  Norton  Bury  man  broke  into  a  horse- 


264  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

laugh,  which  was  quenched  by  his  immediate  ejection  from 
the  meeting. 

Then  Mr.  Thomas  Brown,  steward  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore, 
seconded  the  nomination. 

After  a  few  words  between  the  sheriff,  his  son,  and  Lord 
Luxmore,  the  result  of  which  seemed  rather  unsatisfactory 
than  otherwise,  Sir  Ealph  Oldtower  again  rose. 

"Gentlemen  and  electors,  there  being  no  other  candidate 
proposed,  nothing  is  left  me  but  to  declare  Gerard  Vermilye, 
Esquire " 

John  Halifax  made  his  way  to  the  table.  "Sir  Ralph,  par- 
don my  interruption,  but  may  I  speak  a  few  words?" 

Mr.  Brithwood  started  up  with  an  angry  oath. 

"My  good  sir,"  said  the  baronet,  with  a  look  of  reprehension 
which  proved  him  of  the  minority  who  thought  swearing  un- 
gentlemanly. 

"By ,  Sir  Ralph,  you  shall  not  hear  that  low  fellow!" 

"Excuse  me,  I  must,  if  he  has  a  right  to  be  heard.  Mr. 
Halifax,  are  you  a  freeman  of  Kingswell?" 

"I  am." 

This  fact  surprised  none  more  than  myself. 

Brithwood  furiously  exclaimed  that  it  was  a  falsehood. 
"The  fellow  does  not  belong  to  this  neighborhood  at  all.  He 
was  picked  up  in  Norton  Bury  streets — a  beggar,  a  thief,  for 
all  I  know." 

"You  do  not  know  very  well,  Mr.  Brithwood.  Sir  Ralph,  I 
was  never  either  a  beggar  or  a  thief.  I  began  life  as  a  work- 
ing lad — a  farm  laborer — until  Mr.  Fletcher,  the  tanner,  took 
me  into  his  employ." 

"So  I  have  always  understood,"  said  Sir  Ralph,  courteously. 
"And  next  to  the  man  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  boast  a  no- 
ble origin,  I  respect  the  man  who  is  not  ashamed  of  an  ignoble 
one." 

"That  is  not  exactly  my  position,  either,"  said  John,  with 
a  half  smile.  "But  we  are  passing  from  the  question  in  hand, 
which  is  simply  my  claim  to  be  a  freeman  of  this  borough." 

"On  what  ground?" 

"You  will  find  in  the  charter,  a  clause  seldom  put  in  force, 
that  the  daughter  of  a  freeman  can  confer  the  freedom  on  her 
husband.  My  wife's  late  father,  Mr.  Henry  March,  was  a 
burgess  of  Kingswell.  I  claimed  my  rights,  and  registered 
this  year.  Ask  your  clerk,  Sir  Ralph,  if  I  have  not  spoken 
correctly." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  26G 

The  old  white-headed  clerk  allowed  the  fact. 

Lord  Luxmore  looked  considerably  surprised,  and  politely 
incredulous  still.  His  son-in-law  broke  out  into  loud  abuse 
of  this  "knavery." 

"I  will  pass  over  this  ugly  word,  Mr.  Brithwood, .  merely 
stating  that " 

"We  are  quite  satisfied,"  interrupted  Lord  Luxmore,  bland- 
ly. "My  dear  sir,  may  I  request  so  useful  a  vote  and  so  pow- 
erful an  interest  as  yours,  for  our  friend,  Mr.  Vermilye?" 

"My  lord,  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  you  to  misapprehend 
me  for  a  moment.  It  is  not  my  intention,  except  at  the  last 
extremity,  to  vote  at  all.  If  I  do,  it  will  certainly  not  be  for 
Mr.  Brithwood's  nominee.  Sir  Ralph,  I  doubt  if,  under  some 
circumstances,  which  by  your  permission  I  am  about  to  state, 
Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye  can  keep  his  seat  even  if  elected." 

A  murmur  arose  from  the  crowd  of  mechanics  and  laborers, 
who,  awed  by  such  propinquity  to  gentry  and  even  nobility, 
had  hitherto  hung  sheepishly  back;  but  now,  like  all  English 
crowds,  were  quite  ready  to  "follow  the  leader,"  especially  one 
they  knew. 

"Hear  him,  hear  the  master!"  was  distinguishable  on  all 
sides.  Mr.  Brithwood  looked  too  enraged  for  words;  but  Lord 
Luxmore,  taking  snuff  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  said: 

"Honores  mutant  mores! — I  thought,  Mr.  Halifax,  you  es- 
chewed politics!" 

"Mere  politics  I  do,  but  not  honesty,  justice,  morality;  and 
a  few  facts  have  reached  my  knowledge,  though  possibly  not 
Lord  Luxmore's,  which  make  me  feel  that  Mr.  Vermilye's 
election  would  be  an  insult  to  all  three;  therefore,  I  oppose  it." 

A  loud  murmur  rose. 

"Silence,  you  scoundrels!"  shouted  Mr.  Brithwood;  adding 
his  usual  formula  of  speech,  which  a  second  time  extorted  the 
old  baronet's  grave  rebuke. 

"It  seems,  Sir  Ralph,  that  democracy  is  rife  in  your  neigh- 
borhood. True,  my  acquaintance  has  not  lain  much  among 
the  commonalty,  but  still  I  was  not  aware  that  the  people 
choose  the  member  of  Parliament." 

"They  do  not,  Lord  Luxmore,"  returned  the  sheriff,  some- 
what haughtily.  "But  we  always  hear  the  people.  Mr.  Hali- 
fax, be  brief.  What  have  you  to  allege  against  Mr.  Brith- 
wood's nominee?" 

"First,  his  qualifications.  He  has  not  three  hundred,  nor 
one  hundred  a  year.  He  is  deeply  in  debt,  at  Norton  Bury 


266  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

and  elsewhere.  Warrants  are  out  against  him;  and  only  as  an 
M.  P.  he  can  be  safe  from  outlawry.  Add  to  this  an  offense 
common  as  daylight,  yet  which  the  law  dare  not  wink  at  when 
made  patent,  that  he  has  bribed,  with  great  or  small  sums, 
every  one  of  the  fifteen  electors  of  Kingswell;  and  I  think  I 
have  said  enough  to  convince  any  honest  Englishman  that 
Mr.  Gerard  Vermilye  is  not  fit  to  represent  them  in  Parlia- 
ment/' 

Here  a  loud  cheer  broke  from  the  crowd  at  the  door  and  un- 
der the  open  windows,  where,  thick  as  bees,  the  villagers  had 
now  collected.  They,  the  unvoting — and  consequently  un- 
bribable  portion  of  the  community — began  to  hiss  indignantly 
at  the  fifteen  unlucky  voters.  For  though  bribery  was,  as 
John  had  truly  said,  "as  common  as  daylight,"  still,  if  brought 
openly  before  the  public,  the  said  virtuous  public  generally 
condemned  it,  if  they  themselves  had  not  been  concerned 
therein. 

The  sheriff  listened  uneasily  to  a  sound,  very  uncommon  at 
elections,  of  the  populace  expressing  an. opinion  contrary  to 
that  of  the  lord  of  the  soil. 

"Really,  Mr.  Brithwood,  you  must  have  been  ignorant  as  I 
was  of  the  character  of  your  nominee,  or  you  would  have 
chosen  some  one  else.  Herbert" — he  turned  to  his  son,  who, 
until  the  late  dissolution,  had  sat  for  some  years  as  a  member 
of  Norton  Bury — "Herbert,  are  you  acquainted  with  any  of 
these  facts?" 

Mr.  Herbert  Oldtower  looked  uncomfortable. 

"Answer!"  said  his  father.  "No  hesitation  in  a  matter  of 
right  and  wrong.  Gentlemen,  and  my  worthy  friends,  will  you 
hear  Mr.  Oldtower,  whom  you  all  know?  Herbert,  are  these 
accusations  true?" 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  said  the  grave  young  man,  more  gravely. 

"Mr.  Brithwood,  I  regret  extremely  that  this  discovery  was 
not  made  before.  What  do  you  propose  doing?" 

"By  the  Lord  that  made  me,  nothing!  The  borough  is 
Lord  Luxmore's;  I  could  nominate  Satan  himself  if  I  chose. 
My  man  shall  stand." 

"I  think,"  Lord  Luxmore  said,  with  meaning,  "it  would  be 
better  for  all  parties  that  Mr.  Vermilye  should  stand." 

"My  lord,"  said  the  baronet;  and  one  could  see  that  not  only 
rigid  justice,  but  a  certain  obstinacy,  marked  his  character, 
especially  when  anything  jarred  against  his  personal  dignity 
or  prejudices;  "you  forget  that,  however  desirous  I  am  to  sat- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  267 

isfy  the  family  to  whom  this  borough  belongs,  it  is  impossible 
for  me  to  see  with  satisfaction — even  though  I  cannot  prevent 
— the  election  of  any  person  so  unfit  to  serve  his  Majesty.  If, 
indeed,  there  were  another  candidate,  so  that  the  popular  feel- 
ing might  decide  this  very  difficult  matter " 

"Sir  Ralph,"  said  John  Halifax,  determinedly,  "this  brings 
me  to  the  purpose  for  which  I  spoke.  Being  a  landlord,  and 
likewise  a  freeman  of  this  borough,  I  claim  the  right  of  nomi- 
nating a  second  candidate." 

Intense,  overwhelming  astonishment  struck  all  present. 
Such  a  right  had  been  so  long  unclaimed,  that  everybody  had 
forgotten  it  was  a  right  at  all.  Sir  Ralph  and  his  clerk  laid 
their  venerable  heads  together  for  some  minutes,  before  they 
could  come  to  any  conclusion  on  the  subject.  At  last  the 
sheriff  rose. 

"I  am  bound  to  say  that  though  very  uncommon,  this  pro- 
ceeding is  not  illegal." 

"Not  illegal?"  almost  screamed  Richard  Brithwood. 

"Not  illegal.  I  therefore  wait  to  hear  Mr.  Halifax's  nomi- 
nation. Sir,  your  candidate  is,  I  hope,  no  democrat?" 

"His  political  opinions  differ  from  mine,  but  he  is  the  only 
gentleman  whom  I  in  this  emergency  can  name;  and  is  ono 
whom  myself,  and  I  believe  all  my  neighbors,  will  be  heartily 
glad  to  see  once  more  in  Parliament.  I  beg  to  nominate  Mr. 
Herbert  Oldtower." 

A  decided  sensation  at  the  upper  half  of  the  room.  At  the 
lower  half  a  unanimous,  involuntary  cheer;  for  among  our 
country  families  there  were  few  so  warmly  respected  as  the 
Oldtowers. 

Sir  Ralph  rose,  much  perplexed.  "I  trust  that  no  one  pres- 
ent will  suppose  I  was  aware  of  Mr.  Halifax's  intention.  Nor, 
I  understand,  was  Mr.  Oldtower.  My  son  must  speak  for  him- 
self." 

Mr.  Oldtower  with  his  accustomed  gravity,  accompanied  by 
a  not  unbecoming  modesty,  said,  that  in  this  conjuncture,  and 
being  personally  acquainted  with  both  Mr.  Brithwood  and  the 
Earl  of  Luxmore,  he  felt  no  hesitation  in  accepting  the  honor 
offered  to  him. 

"This  being  the  case,"  said  his  father,  though  evidently  an- 
noyed, "I  have  only  to  fulfill  my  duty  as  public  officer  to  the 
crown." 

Amid  some  confusion,  a  show  of  hands  was  called  for;  and 
then  a  cry  rose  of  "Go  to  the  poll!" 


268  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Go  to  the  poll!"  shouted  Mr.  Brithwood.  "This  is  a  fam- 
ily borough.  There  has  not  been  a  poll  here  these  fifty  years. 
Sir  Ralph,  your  son's  mad." 

"Sir,  insanity  is  not  in  the  family  of  the  Oldtowers.  My 
position  here  is  simply  as  sheriff  of  the  county.  If  a  poll  be 
called  for " 

"Excuse  me,  Sir  Ralph,  it  would  be  hardly  worth  while. 
May  I  oif er  you " 

It  was  only  his  snuff-box.  But  the  earl's  polite  and  mean- 
ing smile  filled  up  the  remainder  of  the  sentence. 

Sir  Ralph  Oldtower  drew  himself  up  haughtily,  and  the  fire 
of  youth  flashed  indignantly  from  his  grand  old  eyes. 

"Lord  Luxmore  seems  not  to  understand  the  duties  and 
principles  of  us  country  gentlemen,"  he  said,  coldly,  and 
turned  away,  addressing  the  general  meeting.  "Gentlemen, 
the  poll  will  be  held  this  afternoon,  according  to  the  sugges- 
tion of  my  neighbor  here." 

"Sir  Ralph  Oldtower  has  convenient  neighbors,"  remarked 
Lord  Luxmore. 

"Of  my  neighbor,  Mr.  Halifax,"  repeated  the  old  baronet 
louder,  and  more  emphatically.  "A  gentleman" — he  paused 
as  if  doubtful  whether  in  that  title  he  were  awarding  a  right 
or  bestowing  a  courtesy,  looked  at  John,  and  decided — "a  gen- 
tleman for  whom,  ever  since  I  have  known  him,  I  have  enter- 
tained the  highest  respect." 

It  was  the  first  public  recognition  of  the  position  which  for 
some  time  had  been  tacitly  given  to  John  Halifax  in  his  own 
neighborhood.  Coming  thus  from  this  upright  and  honora- 
ble old  man,  whose  least  merit  was  to  hold,  and  worthily,  a 
baronetage  centuries  old,  it  made  John's  cheek  glow  with  an 
honest  gratification  and  a  pardonable  pride. 

"Tell  her,"  he  said  to  me,  when  the  meeting  having  dis- 
persed, he  asked  me  to  ride  home  and  explain  the  reason  of  his 
detention  at  Kingswell — "Tell  my  wife  all.  She  will  be 
pleased,  you  know." 

Ay,  she  was.  Her  face  glowed  and  brightened  as  only  a 
wife's  can;  a  wife  whose  dearest  pride  is  in  her  husband's 
honor. 

Nevertheless  she  hurried  me  back  again  as  quickly  as  I 
came. 

As  I  once  more  rode  up  Kingswell  Hill,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  parish  were  agog  to  see  the  novel  sight.  A  contested 
election!  Truly  such  a  thing  had  not  been  known  within  the 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  269 

memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant.  The  fifteen  voters — I  be- 
lieve that  was  the  number — were  altogether  bewildered  by  a 
sense  of  their  own  importance.  Also  by  a  new  and  startling 
fact — which  I  found  Mr.  Halifax  trying  to  impress  upon  a  few 
of  them,  gathered  under  the  great  yew-tree  in  the  church- 
yard— that  a  man's  vote  ought  to  be  the  expression  of  his  own 
conscientious  opinion;  and  that  for  him  to  sell  it  was  scarcely 
less  vile  than  to  traffic  in  the  liberty  of  his  son  or  the  honor  of 
his  daughter.  Among  those  who  listened  most  earnestly,  was 
a  man  whom  I  had  before  seen  to-day — Jacob  Baines,  once  the 
ring-leader  of  the  bread-riots,  who  had  long  worked  steadily  in 
the  tan-yard,  and  then  at  the  flour-mill.  He  was  the  honest- 
est  and  faithfulest  of  all  John's  people — illustrating  uncon- 
sciously that  Divine  doctrine,  that  often  they  love  most  to 
whom  most  has  been  forgiven. 

The  poll  was  to  be  held  in  the  church — a  not  uncommon 
usage  in  country  boroughs,  but  which  from  its  rarity  struck 
great  awe  into  the  Kingswell  folk.  The  church-warden  was 
placed  in  the  clerk's  desk  to  receive  votes.  Not  far  off  the 
sheriff  sat  in  his  family  pew,  bareheaded;  by  his  grave  and  rev- 
erent manner  imposing  due  decorum,  which  was  carefully  ob- 
served by  all  except  Lord  Luxmore  and  Mr.  Brithwood. 

These  two,  apparently  sure  of  their  cause,  had  recovered 
their  spirits,  and  talked  and  laughed  loudly  on  the  other  side 
of  the  church.  It  was  a  very  small  building,  narrow  and  cruci- 
form; every  word  said  in  it  was  distinctly  audible  throughout. 

"My  lord,  gentlemen,  and  my  friends,"  said  Sir  Ralph,  ris- 
ing gravely,  "let  me  hope  that  every  one  will  respect  the  sanc- 
tity of  this  place." 

Lord  Luxmore,  who  had  been  going  about  with  his  dazzling 
diamond  snuff-box  and  equally  dazzling  smile,  stopped  in  the 
middle  of  the  aisle,  bowed,  replied,  "With  pleasure — cer- 
tainly!" and  walked  inside  the  communion,  as  if  believing 
that  his  presence  there  conveyed  the  highest  compliment  ho 
could  pay  the  spot. 

The  poll  began  in  perfect  silence.  One  after  the  other, 
three  farmers  went  up  and  voted  for  Mr.  Yermilye.  There 
was  snuff  under  their  noses — probably  something  heavier  than 
snuff  in  their  pockets. 

Then  came  up  the  big,  gray-headed  fellow  I  have  before 
mentioned — Jacob  Baines.  He  pulled  his  forelock  to  Sir 
Balph  rather  shyly;  possibly  in  his  youth  he  had  made  the 


270  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

sheriffs  acquaintance  under  less  favorable  circumstances.  But 
he  plucked  up  courage. 

"Your  honor,  might  a  man  say  a  word  to  'ee?" 

"Certainly!  but  be  quick,  my  good  fellow,"  replied  the  baro- 
net, who  was  noted  for  his  kindly  manner  to  humble  folk. 

"Sir,  I  be  a  poor  man.  I  lives  in  one  o'  my  lord's  houses. 
I  hanna  paid  no  rent  for  a  year.  Mr.  Brown  zays  to  me,  he 
/ays:  'Jacob,  vote  for  Vermilye,  and  I'll  forgive  'ee  the  rent, 
and  here  be  two  pound  ten  to  start  again  wi'.'  So,  as  I  zays 
to  Matthew  Hales  (he  be  Mr.  Halifax's  tenant,  your  honor, 
and  my  lord's  steward  ha'  paid  'un  nigh  four  pound  for  his 
vote)  I  sure  us  be  poor  men,  and  his  lordship  a  lord  and  all 
that — it's  no  harm,  I  reckon." 

"Halloo!  cut  it  short,  you  rascal;  you're  stopping  the  poll. 
Vote,  I  say." 

"Ay,  ay,  'squire;"  and  the  old  fellow,  who  had  some  humor 
in  him,  pulled  his  hair  again  civilly  to  Mr.  Brithwood.  "Wait 
till  I  ha'  got  shut  o'  these." 

And  he  counted  out  of  his  ragged  pockets  a  handful  of 
guineas.  Poor  fellow!  how  bright  they  looked;  those  guineas, 
that  were  food,  clothing,  life! 

"Three  was  paid  to  I,  two  to  Will  Horrocks,  and  the  rest  to 
Matthew  Hales.  But,  sir,  we  has  changed  our  minds;  and 
please,  would'ee  give  back  the  money  to  them  as  owns  it  ?" 

"Still,  my  honest  friend—" 

"Thank'ee,  Sir  Ralph,  that's  it:  we  be  honest;  we  couldn't 
look  the  master  in  the  face  else.  Twelve  year  ago,  come 
Michaelmas,  he  kept  some  on  us  from  starving — maybe  worse. 
We  bean't  going  to  turn  rascals  on's  hands  now.  Now  I'll 
vote,  sir — and  it  won't  be  for  Vermilye." 

A  smothered  murmur  of  applause  greeted  old  Jacob,  as 
he  marched  back  down  the  aisle,  where  on  the  stone  benches 
of  the  porch  was  seated  a  rural  jury,  who  discussed  not  over- 
f  avorably  the  merits  of  Lord  Luxmore's  candidate. 

"He  owes  a  power  o'  money  in  Norton  Bury — he  do." 

"Why  doesn't  he  show  his  face  at  the  'lection  like  a  decent 
gen'leman  ?" 

"Fear'd  o'  bailiffs!"  suggested  the  one  constable,  old  and 
rheumatic,  who  guarded  the  peace  of  Kingswell.  'Tie's  the 
bigerest  swindler  in  all  England." 

"Curse  him!"  muttered  an  old  woman.  "She  was  a  benny 
lass— my ^ Sally.  Curse  him!" 

All  this  while  Lord  Luxmore  sat  in  lazy  dignity  in  the 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  271 

communion-chair  apparently  satisfied  that  as  things  always 
had  been  so  they  would  continue  to  be;  that  despite  the  un- 
heard-of absurdity  of  a  contested  election  his  pocket-borough 
was  quite  secure.  It  must  have  been,  to  say  the  least,  a  great 
surprise  to  his  lordship  when,  the  poll  being  closed,  its  result 
was  found  thus:  Out  of  the  fifteen  votes,  six  were  for  Mr.  Ver- 
milye,  nine  for  his  opponent.  Mr.  Herbert  Oldtower  was 
therefore  duly  elected  as  member  for  the  borough  of  Kings- 
well. 

The  earl  received  the  announcement  with  dignified,  in- 
credulous silence;  but  Mr.  Brithwood  never  spared  language. 

"It's  a  cheat — an  infamous  conspiracy!  I  will  unseat  him; 
by  my  soul,  I  will!" 

"You  may  find  it  difficult,"  said  John  Halifax,  counting 
out  the  guineas  deposited  by  Jacob  Baines,  and  laying  them 
in  a  heap  before  Mr.  Brown,  the  steward.  "Small  as  the  num- 
ber was,  I  believe  any  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons 
will  decide  that  nine  honester  votes  were  never  polled.  But 
I  regret,  my  lord — I  regret  deeply,  Mr.  Brithwood" — and 
there  was  a  kind  of  pity  in  his  eye — "that  in  this  matter  I 
have  been  forced,  as  it  were,  to  become  your  opponent.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  you  may  both  do  me  the  justice  that  I  now  can 
only  look  for  from  my  own  conscience." 

"Very  possibly,"  replied  the  earl,  with  a  satirical  bow.  "I 
believe,  gentleman,  our  business  is  ended  for  to-day,  and  it 
is  a  long  drive  to  Xorton  Bury.  Sir  Ralph,  might  we  hope  for 
the  honor  of  your  company?  No?  Good-day,  my  friends. 
Mr.  Halifax,  your  servant." 

"One  word,  my  lord.  Those  workmen  of  mine,  who  are 
your  tenants — I  am  aware  what  usually  results  when  tenants 
in  arrear  vote  against  their  landlords — if,  without  taking  any 
harsher  measures,  your  agent  will  be  so  kind  as  to  apply  to 
me  for  the  rent " 

"Sir,  my  agent  will  use  his  own  discretion." 

"Then  I  rely  on  your  lordship's  kindliness — your  sense  of 
honor." 

"Honor  is  only  spoken  of  between  equals,"  said  the  earl, 
haughtily.  "But  on  one  thing  Mr.  Halifax  may  always  rely — 
my  excellent  memory." 

With  a  smile  and  bow  as  perfect  as  if  he  were  victoriously 
quitting  the  field,  Lord  Luxmore  departed.  Soon  not  one 
remained  of  all  those  who  had  filled  the  church  and  church- 
yard, making  there  a  tumult  that  is  chronicled  to  this  very 


272  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

d'ay  by  some  ancient  villagers,  who  still  think  themselves 
greatly  ill-used  because  the  Reform  Act  has  blotted  out  of  the 
list  of  English  boroughs  the  "loyal  and  independent"  borough 
of  Kingswell." 

Sir  Ralph  Oldtower  stood  a  good  while  talking  with  John; 
and  finally,  having  sent  his  carriage  on,  walked  with  him 
down  Kingswell  Hill  toward  the  manor-house.  I,  riding 
alongside,  caught  fragments  of  their  conversation. 

"What  you  say  is  all  true,  Mr.  Halifax;  and  you  say  it  well. 
But  what  can  we  do?  Our  English  constitution  is  perfect — 
that  is,  as  perfect  as  anything  human  can  be.  Yet  corrup- 
tions will  arise;  we  regret,  we  even  blame — but  we  cannot  re- 
move them.  It  is  impossible." 

"Do  you  think,  Sir  Ralph,  that  the  Maker  of  this  world— 
which,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  he  means  like  all  other  of  his 
creations  gradually  to  advance  toward  perfection — do  you 
think  he  would  justify  us  in  pronouncing  any  good  work 
therein  'impossible?' " 

"You  talk  like  a  young  man,"  said  the  baronet,  half  sadly. 
"Coming  years  will  show  you  the  world,  and  the  ways  of  it, 
in  a  clearer  light." 

"I  earnestly  hope  so." 

Sir  Ralph  glanced  sideways  at  him,  perhaps  with  a  sort  of 
envy  of  the  very  youth  which  he  thus  charitably  excused  as  a 
thing  to  be  allowed  for  till  riper  wisdom  came.  Something 
might  have  smote  the  old  man  with  a  conviction,  that  in  this 
youth  was  strength  and  life,  the  spirit  of  the  new  generation 
then  arising,  before  which  the  old  worn-out  generation  would 
crumble  into  its  natural  dust.  Dust  of  the  dead  ages,  honor- 
able dust,  to  be  reverently  inurned,  and  never  parricidally 
profaned  by  us  the  living  age,  who  in  our  turn  must  follow 
the  same  downward  path.  Dust,  venerable  and  beloved,  but 
still  only  dust. 

The  conversation  ended,  we  took  our  diverse  ways;  Sir 
Ralph  giving  Mr.  Halifax  a  hearty  invitation  to  the  manor- 
house,  and  seeing  him  hesitate,  adding  that  "Lady  Old- 
tower  would  shortly  have  the  honor  of  calling  upon  Mrs. 
Halifax." 

John  bowed.  "But  I  ought  to  tell  yon,  Sir  Ralph,  that 
my  wife  and  I  are  very  simple  people — that  we  make  no 
mere  acquaintances,  and  only  desire  friends." 

"It  is  fortunate  that  Lady   Oldtower  and  myself  snare 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  273 

the  same  peculiarity."  And  shaking  hands  with  a  stately 
cordiality,  the  old  man  took  his  leave. 

"John,  you  have  made  a  step  in  the  world  to-day." 

"Have  I?"  he  said,  absently,  walking  in  deep  thought,  and 
pulling  the  hedge-leaves  as  he  went  along. 

"What  will  your  wife  say?" 

"My  wife!  bless  her!"  and  he  seemed  to  be  only  speaking 
the  conclusion  of  his  thinking.  "It  will  make  no  difference 
to  her — though  it  might  to  me.  She  married  me  in  my  low 
estate — but  some  day,  God  willing,  no  lady  in  the  land  shall 
be  higher  than  my  Ursula." 

Thus,  as  in  all  things,  each  thought  most  of  each  other,  and 
both  of  Him — whose  will  was  to  them  beyond  all  human 
love,  ay,  even  such  love  as  theirs. 

Slowly,  slowly,  I  watched  the  gray  turrets  of  the  manor- 
house  fade  away  in  the  dusk;  the  hills  grew  indistinct,  and 
suddenly  we  saw  the  little  twinkling  light  that  we  knew  was 
the  lamp  in  Longfield  parlor  shine  out  like  a  glow-worm  across 
the  misty  fields. 

"I  wonder  if  the  children  are  gone  to  bed,  Phineas?" 

And  the  fatherly  eyes  turned  fondly  to  that  pretty  wink- 
ing light;  the  fatherly  heart  began  to  hover  over  the  dear 
little  nest  at  home. 

"Surely  there's  some  one  at  the  White  Gate.  Ursula!" 

"John!    Ah,  it  is  you!" 

The  mother  did  not  express  her  feelings  after  the  fashion 
of  most  women;  but  I  knew  by  her  waiting  there,  and  by 
the  nervous  tremble  of  her  hand  how  great  her  anxiety  had 
been. 

"Is  all  safe,  husband?" 

"I  think  so.  Mr.  Oldtower  is  elected — he  must  fly  the 
country." 

"Then  she  is  saved?" 

"Let  us  hope  she  is.  Come,  my  darling!"  and  he  wrapped 
his  arm  round  her,  for  she  was  shivering.  "We  have  done 
all  we  could,  and  must  wait  the  rest.  Come  home.  0!" 
with  a  lifted  look  and  a  closer  strain,  "thank  God  for  home!" 


274  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

We  always  rose  early  at  Longfield.  It  was  lovely  to 
see  the  morning  sun  climbing  over  One-tree  Hill,  catching 
the  larch-wood,  and  creeping  down  the  broad  slope  of  our 
field;  thence  up  toward  Redwood  and  Leckington — until, 
while  the  dews  yet  lay  thick  on  our  shadowed  valley,  Leck- 
ington Hill  was  all  in  a  glow  of  light.  Delicious,  too,  to  hear 
the  little  ones  running  in  and  out,  bright  and  merry  as  chil- 
dren ought  to  be  in  the  first  wholesome  hours  of  the  day— 
to  see  them  feeding  their  chickens  and  petting  their  doves — 
calling  every  minute  on  father  or  mother  to  investigate  and 
enjoy  some  wonder  in  farm-yard  or  garden.  And  either 
was  ever  ready  to  listen  to  the  smallest  of  these  little  mys- 
teries knowing  that  nothing  in  childhood  is  too  trivial  for 
the  notice,  too  foolish  for  the  sympathy,  of  those  on  whom 
the  Father  of  all  men  has  bestowed  the  holy  dignity  of  parent- 
hood. 

I  could  see  them  now,  standing  among  the  flower-beds, 
out  in  the  sunny  morning,  the  father's  tall  head  in  the  center 
of  the  group — for  he  was  always  the  important  person  dur- 
ing the  brief  hour  or  two  that  he  was  able  to  be  at  home. 
The  mother  close  beside  him,  and  both  knotted  round  with 
an  interlaced  mass  of  little  arms  and  little  eager  faces,  each 
wanting  to  hear  everything  and  to  look  at  everything — every- 
body to  be  first  and  nobody  last.  None  rested  quiet  or  mute 
for  a  second,  except  the  one  who  kept  close  as  his  shadow 
to  her  father's  side,  and  unwittingly  was  treated  by  him  less 
like  the  other  children  than  like  some  stray  spirit  of  another 
world,  caught  and  held  jealously,  but  without  much  outward 
notice,  lest  haply  it  might  take  alarm  and  vanish  back  again 
unawares.  Whenever  he  came  home  and  did  not  see  her  wait- 
ing at  the  door,  his  first  question  was  always,  "Where's  Mu- 
riel?" 

Muriel's  still  face  looked  very  bright  this  morning — the 
Monday  morning  after  the  election — because  her  father  was 
going  to  be  at  home  the  whole  day.  It  was  the  annual  holi- 
day he  had  planned  for  his  work-people.  This  only  "dinner- 
part/'  we  had  ever  given  was  in  its  character  not  unlike  that 
memorable  feast  to  which  were  gathered  the  poor,  the  lame, 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  275 

the  halt,  and  the  blind — all  who  needed,  and  all  who  could  not 
return  the  kindness.  There  were  great  cooking  preparations 
— everything  that  could  make  merry  the  heart  of  man — tea, 
to  comfort  the  heart  of  woman,  hard-working  woman — and 
lots  of  bright  pennies  and  silver  groats  to  rejoice  the  very  soul 
of  youth. 

Mrs.  Halifax,  Jem  Watkins,  and  his  Jenny,  were  as  busy 
as  bees  all  morning.  John  did  his  best  to  help,  but  finally 
the  mother  pleaded  how  hard  it  was  that  the  children  should 
miss  their  holiday-walk  with  him;  so  we  were  all  dismissed 
from  the  scene  of  action,  to  spend  a  long,  quiet  two  hours,  ly- 
ing under  the  great  oak  on  One-tree  Hill.  The  little  ones 
played  about  till  they  were  tired;  then  John  took  out  the 
newspaper  and  read  about  Ciudad  Kodrigo,  and  Lord  Welling- 
ton's entry  into  Madrid — the  battered  eagles  and  the  torn  and 
bloody  flags  of  Badajoz,  which  were  on  their  way  home  to  the 
Prince  Eegent. 

"I  wish  the  fighting  were  over,  and  peace  were  come,"  said 
Muriel. 

But  the  boys  wished  quite  otherwise;  they  already  gloried 
in  the  accounts  of  battles,  played  domestic  games  of  French 
and  English,  acted  garden  sieges  and  blockades. 

"How  strange  and  awful  it  seems,  to  sit  on  this  green  grass, 
looking  down  our  quiet  valley,  and  then  think  of  the  fighting 
far  away  in  Spain — perhaps  this  very  minute,  under  this  very 
sky!  Boys,  I'll  never  let  either  of  you  be  a  soldier." 

"Poor  little  fellows!"  said  I,  "they  can  remember  nothing 
but  war-time." 

"What  would  peace  be  like?"  asked  Muriel. 

"A  glorious  time,  my  child — rejoicings  everywhere,  fathers 
and  brothers  coming  home,  work  thriving,  poor  men's  food 
made  cheap,  and  all  things  prospering." 

"I  should  like  to  live  to  see  it.  Shall  I  be  a  woman  then, 
father?" 

He  started.  Somehow,  she  seemed  so  unlike  an  ordinary 
child,  that  while  all  the  boys'  future  was  merrily  planned  out 
— the  mother  often  said,  laughing,  she  knew  exactly  what  sort 
of  a  young  man  Guy  would  be — none  of  us  ever  seemed  to 
think  of  Muriel  as  a  woman. 

"Is  Muriel  anxious  to  be  grown  up?  Is  she  not  satisfied 
with  being  my  little  daughter  always?" 

"Always." 


276  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Her  father  drew  her  to  him,  and  kissed  her  soft,  shut 
blind  eyes.  Then,  sighing,  he  rose,  and  proposed  that  we 
should  all  go  home. 

This  first  feast  at  Longfield  was  a  most  merry  day.  The 
men  and  their  families  came  about  noon.  Soon  after,  they 
all  sat  down  to  dinner;  Jem  Watkins'  plan  of  the  barn  being 
universally  scouted  in  favor  of  an  open-air  feast,  in  the  shelter 
of  a  hay-rick,  under  the  mild  blue  September  sky.  Jem 
presided  with  a  ponderous  dignity  which  throughout  the 
day  furnished  great  private  amusement  to  Ursula,  John  and 
me. 

In  the  afternoon  all  rambled  about  as  they  liked — many 
under  the  circeroneship  of  Master  Edwin  and  Master  Guy, 
who  were  very  popular  and  grand  indeed.  Then  the  mother, 
with  Walter  clinging  shy-eyed  to  her  gown,  went  among  the 
other  poorer  mothers  there;  talked  to  one,  comforted  another, 
counselled  a  third,  and  invariably  listened  to  all.  There  was 
little  of  patronizing  benevolence  about  her;  she  spoke  freely, 
sometimes  even  with  some  sharpness,  when  reproving  com- 
ment was  needed;  but  her  earnest  kindness,  her  active  good- 
ness, darting  at  once  to  the  truth  and  right  of  things,  touched 
the  women's  hearts.  While  a  few  were  a  little  wholesomely 
afraid  of  her,  all  recognized  the  influence  of  "the  mistress," 
penetrating  deep  and  sure,  extending  far  and  wide. 

She  laughed  at  me  when  I  told  her  so — said  it  was  all  non- 
sense— that  she  only  followed  John's  simple  recipe,  for  mak- 
ing his  work-people  feel  that  he  was  a  friend  as  well  as  a 
master. 

"What  is  that?" 

"To  pay  attention  and  consideration  to  all  they  say;  and 
always  to  take  care  and  remember  to  call  them  by  their  right 
Christian  names." 

I  could  not  help  smiling — it  was  an  answer  so  like  Mrs. 
Halifax,  who  never  indulged  in  any  verbal  sentimentalism. 
Her  part  in  the  world  was  deeds. 

It  was  already  evening,  when,  having  each  contributed  our 
quota,  great  or  small,  to  the  entertainment,  we  all  came  and 
sat  on  the  long  bench  under  the  walnut-tree.  The  sun  went 
down  red  behind  us,  throwing  a  last  glint  on  the  upland  field, 
where,  from  top  to  bottom,  the  young  men  and  women  were 
running  in  a  long  "thread-the-needle."  Their  voices  and 
laughter  came  faintly  down  to  us. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  277 

"I  think  they  have  had  a  happy  day,  John.  They  will  work 
all  the  better  to-morrow/' 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Guy,  who  had  heen  acting  the  young  master 
all  day,  condescendingly  stating  his  will  and  giving  his  opin- 
ion on  every  subject,  greatly  petted  and  looked  up  to  by  all, 
to  the  no  small  amusement  of  us  elders. 

"Why,  my  son?"  asked  the  father,  smiling. 

But  here  Master  Guy  was  posed,  and  everybody  laughed  at 
him.  He  colored  up  with  childish  anger,  and  crept  nearer 
his  mother.  She  made  a  place  for  him  at  her  side,  looking 
appealingly  at  John. 

"Guy  has  got  out  of  his  depth — we  must  help  him  into 
safe  waters  again,"  said  the  father.  "Look  here,  my  son, 
this  is  the  reason — and  it  is  well  not  to  be  'quite  sure'  of  a 
thing  unless  one  knows  the  reason.  Our  people  will  work  the 
better,  because  they  will  work  from  love.  Not  merely  doing 
their  duty,  and  obeying  their  master  in  a  blind  way,  but 
feeling  an  interest  in  him  and  all  that  belong  to  him;  knowing 
that  he  feels  the  same  in  them.  Knowing,  too,  that  although, 
being  their  superior  in  many  things,  he  is  their  master  and 
they  his  servants,  he  never  forgets  that  saying,  which  I  read 
out  of  the  Bible,  children,  this  morning:  'One  is  your  master — 
even  Christ,  and  all  ye  are  brethren.'  Do  you  understand?" 

I  think  they  did,  for  he  was  accustomed  to  talk  with  them 
thus — even  beyond  their  years.  Not  in  the  way  of  preachify- 
ing — for  these  little  ones  had  in  their  childish  days  scarcely 
any  so-called  "religious  instruction,"  save  the  daily  chapter 
out  of  the  New  Testament,  and  the  father  and  mother's  daily 
life,  which  was  a  simple  and  literal  carrying  out  of  the  same. 
To  that  one  test  was  brought  all  that  was  thought,  or  said, 
or  done,  in  our  household,  where  it  often  seemed  as  if  the 
Master  were  as  visibly  obeyed  and  followed  as  in  the  household 
which  He  loved  at  Bethany. 

As  to  what  doctrinal  creed  we  held,  or  what  sect  we  belonged 
to,  I  can  give  but  the  plain  answer  which  John  gave  to  all 
such  inquiries — that  we  were  Christians. 

After  these  words  from  the  Holy  Book  (which  the  children 
always  listened  to  with  great  reverence,  as  to  the  Book  which 
their  parents  most  loved  and  honored,  the  reading  and  learn- 
ing of  which  was  granted  as  a  high  reward  and  favor,  and 
never  carelessly  allowed,  or — horrible  to  think! — inflicted  as 
a  punishment),  we  ceased  smiling  at  Guy,  who  in  his  turn 


278  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ceased  to  frown.  The  little  storm  blew  over,  as  our  domestic 
storms  usually  did,  leaving  a  clear  free  heaven.  Loving  one 
another,  of  course  we  quarreled  sometimes;  but  we  always 
made  it  up  again,  because  we  loved  one  another. 

"Father,  I  hear  the  click  of  the  gate.  There's  somebody 
coming/'  said  Muriel. 

The  father  paused  in  a  great  romp  with  his  sons — paused, 
as  he  ever  did  when  his  little  daughter's  soft  voice  was  heard. 
"  'Tis  only  a  poor  boy — who  can  he  be?" 

"One  of  the  folk  that  come  for  milk,  most  likely — but  we 
have  none  to  give  away  to-day.  What  do  you  want,  my  lad?" 

The  lad,  who  looked  miserable  and  scared,  opened  his  mouth 
with  a  stupid  "Eh?" 

Ursula  repeated  the  question. 

"I  wants  Jacob  Baines." 

"You'll  find  him  with  the  rest,  in  front  of  that  hay-rick, 
over  his  pipe  and  ale." 

The  lad  was  off  like  a  shot. 

"He  is  from  Kingswell,  I  think.  Can  anything  be  the 
matter,  John?" 

"I  will  go  and  see.  No,  boys,  no  more  games — I  will  be 
back  presently." 

He  went,  apparently  rather  anxious — as  was  easy  to  find 
out  by  only  a  glance  at  the  face  of  Ursula.  Soon  she  rose 
and  went  after  him.  I  followed  her. 

We  saw,  close  by  the  hay-rick,  a  group  of  men  angrily  talk- 
ing. The  gossiping  mothers  were  just  joining  them.  Far  off 
in  the  field  the  younger  folk  were  still  dancing  merrily  down 
their  long  line  of  "thread-the-needle." 

As  we  approached,  we  heard  sobbing  from  one  or  two  wom- 
en, and  loud  curses  from  the  men. 

"What's  amiss?"  said  Mr.  Halifax,  as  he  came  in  the  midst — 
and  both  curses  and  sobbings  were  silenced.  All  began  a 
confused  tale  of  wrongs.  "Stop,  Jacob — I  can't  make  it 
out." 

"This  lad  ha*  seen  it  all.  And  he  bean't  a  liar  in  big 
things — speak  up,  Billy." 

Somehow  or  other,  we  extracted  the  news  brought  by  ragged 
Billy,  who  on  this  day  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  five 
dwellings  rented  of  Lord  Luxmore.  During  the  owners'  ab- 
sence there  had  been  a  distraint  for  rent;  every  bit  of  the 
furniture  was  carried  off;  two  or  three  aged  and  sick  folk  were 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  279 

left  lying  on  the  bare  floor;  and  the  poor  families  here  would 
have  to  go  home  to  nothing  but  their  four  walls. 

Again,  at  repetition  of  the  stcry,  the  women  wept  and  the 
men  swore. 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Mr.  Halifax  again.  But  I  saw  that  his 
honest  English  blood  was  boiling  within  him.  "Jem" — and 
Jem  Watkins  started,  so  unusually  sharp  and  commanding 
was  his  master's  tone — "saddle  the  mare — quick!  I  shall  ride 
to  Kingswell,  and  thence  to  the  sheriff's." 

"God  bless  'ee,  sir!"  sobbed  Jacob  Baines'  widowed  daugh- 
ter-in-law, who  had  left,  as  I  overheard  her  telling  Mrs.  Hali- 
fax, a  sick  child  to-day  at  home. 

Jacob  Baines  took  up  a  heavy  knobbed  stick  which  hap- 
pened to  be  leaning  against  the  hay-rick,  and  eyed  it  with 
savage  meaning. 

"Who  be  they  as  has  done  this,  master?" 

"Put  that  bludgeon  down,  Jacob." 

The  man  hesitated,  met  his  master's  determined  eye,  and 
obeyed  him,  meek  as  a  lamb. 

"But  what  is  us  to  do,  sir?" 

"Nothing.  Stay  here  till  I  return;  you  shall  come  to  no 
harm.  You  will  trust  me,  my  men?" 

They  gathered  round  him — those  big,  fierce-looking  fel- 
lows, in  whom  was  brute  force  enough  to  attack  or  resist  any- 
thing— yet  he  made  them  listen  to  reason.  He  explained 
as  much  as  he  could  of  the  injustice  which  had  apparently 
been  done  them — injustice  which  had  overstepped  the  law, 
and  could  only  be  met  by  keeping  absolutely  within  the 
law. 

"It  is  partly  my  fault  that  I  did  not  pay  the  rent  to-day. 
I  will  do  so  at  once.  I  will  get  your  goods  back  to-night,  if 
I  can.  If  not,  you  hale  fellows  can  rough  it,  and  we'll  take 
the  women  and  children  in  till  morning — can  we  not,  love?" 

"Ay,  readily!"  said  the  mother.  "Don't  cry,  my  good  wom- 
en. Mary  Baines,  give  me  your  baby.  Cheer  up;  the  master 
will  set  all  right!" 

John  smiled  at  her  in  fond  thanks — the  wife  who  hindered 
him  by  no  selfishness  or  weakness,  but  was  his  right  hand 
and  support  in  everything.  As  he  mounted  she  gave  him  his 
whip,  whispering: 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  mind.  Come  back  as  soon  as 
you  can." 

And  lingeringly  she  watched  him  gallop  down  the  field. 


280  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

It  was  a  strange  three  hours  we  passed  in  his  absence.  The 
misty  night  came  down  and  round  about  the  house  crept  wail- 
ing the  loud  September  wind.  We  brought  the  women  into 
the  kitchen — the  men  lit  a  fire  in  the  farm-yard  and  sat  sul- 
lenly round  it.  It  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  persuade 
Guy  and  Edwin  to  go  to  bed  instead  of  watching  that  "beau- 
tiful blaze."  There,  more  than  once,  I  saw  the  mother  stand- 
ing, with  a  shawl  over  her  head  and  her  white  gown  blowing, 
trying  to  reason  into  patience  those  poor  fellows,  savage  with 
their  wrongs. 

"How  far  have  they  been  wronged,  Phineas?  What  is  the 
strict  law  of  the  case?  Will  any  harm  come  to  John  for 
interfering?" 

I  told  her  no,  so  far  as  I  knew.  That  the  cruelty  and  il- 
legality lay  in  the  haste  of  the  distraint,  and  in  the  goods  hav- 
ing been  carried  off  at  once,  giving  no  opportunity  of  redeem- 
ing them.  It  was  easy  to  grind  the  faces  of  the  poor,  who 
had  no  helper. 

"Never  mind;  my  husband  will  see  them  righted — at  all 
risks." 

"But  Lord  Luxmore  is  his  landlord." 

She  looked  troubled.  "I  see  what  you  mean.  It  is  easy  to 
make  an  enemy.  No  matter — I  fear  not.  I  fear  nothing 
while  John  does  what  he  feels  to  be  right — as  I  know  he  will. 
The  issue  is  in  higher  hands  than  ours  or  Lord  Luxmore's. 
But  where's  Muriel?" 

For  as  we  sat  talking,  the  little  girl — whom  nothing  could 
persuade  to  go  to  bed  till  her  father  came  home — had  slipped 
from  my  hand,  and  gone  out  into  the  blustering  night.  We 
found  her  standing  all  by  herself  under  the  walnut-tree. 

"I  wanted  to  listen  for  father.    When  will  he  come?" 

"Soon,  I  hope,"  answered  the  mother,  with  a  sigh.  "You 
must  not  stay  out  in  the  cold  and  the  dark,  my  child." 

"I  am  not  cold,  and  I  know  no  dark,"  said  Muriel,  softly. 

And  thus  so  it  was  with  her  always.  In  her  spirit,  as  in 
her  outward  life,  so  innocent  and  harmless,  she  knew  no  dark. 
No  cold  looks — no  sorrowful  sights — no  winter — no  age.  The 
hand  laid  upon  her  dear  eyes,  pressed  eternal  peace  down  on 
her  soul.  I  believe  she  was,  if  ever  human  being  was,  purely 
and  entirely  happy.  It  was  always  sweet  for  us  to  know  this 
— it  is  very  sweet  still,  Muriel,  our  beloved! 

We  brought  her  within  the  house,  but  she  persisted  in 
sitting  in  her  usual  place,  on  the  door-sill,  "waiting"  for  her 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  281 

father.  It  was  she  who  first  heard  the  white  gate  swing,  and 
told  us  he  was  coming. 

Ursula  ran  down  to  the  stream  to  meet  him. 

When  they  came  up  the  path,  it  was  not  alone — John  was 
helping  a  lame  old  woman,  and  his  wife  carried  in  her  arms 
a  sick  child,  on  whom,  when  they  entered  the  kitchen,  Mary 
Baines  threw  herself  in  a  passion  of  crying. 

'"What  have  they  been  doing  to  'ee,  Tommy?  'ee  warn't 
like  this  when  I  left  'ee.  0  they've  been  killing  my  lad,  they 
have!" 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Halifax;  "we'll  get  him  well  again,  please 
God.  Listen  to  what  the  master's  saying." 

He  was  telling  to  the  men  who  gathered  round  the  kitchen- 
door  the  results  of  his  journey. 

It  was — as  I  had  expected  from  his  countenance  the  first 
minute  he  appeared — fruitless.  He  had  found  all  things  at 
Kingswell  as  stated.  Then  he  rode  to  the  sheriff's;  but  Sir 
Ralph  was  absent,  sent  for  to  Luxmore  Hall  on  very  painful 
business. 

"My  friends,"  said  the  master,  stopping  abruptly  in  his 
narrative,  "for  a  few  hours  you  must  make  up  your  minds 
to  sit  still  and  bear  it.  Every  man  has  to  learn  that  lesson 
at  times.  Your  landlord  has — I  would  rather  be  the  poorest 
among  you  than  Lord  Luxmore  this  night.  Be  patient;  we'll 
lodge  you  all,  somehow.  To-morrow  I  will  pay  your  rent,  get 
your  goods  back,  and  you  shall  begin  the  world  again,  as  my 
tenant,  not  Lord  Luxmore's." 

"Hurrah!"  shouted  the  men,  easily  satisfied,  as  working 
people  are,  who  have  been  used  all  their  days  to  live  from 
hand  to  mouth,  and  to  whom  the  present  is  all  in  all.  They 
followed  the  master,  who  settled  them  in  the  barn,  and  then 
came  back  to  consult  with  his  wife  as  to  where  the  women 
could  be  stowed  away.  So,  in  a  short  time,  the  five  homeless 
families  were  cheerily  disposed  of — all  but  Mary  Baines  and 
her  sick  boy. 

"What  can  we  do  with  them?"  said  John,  questioningly, 
to  Ursula. 

"I  see  but  one  course.  We  must  take  him  in;  his  mother 
says  hunger  is  the  chief  thing  that  ails  the  lad.  She  fancies 
that  he  has  had  the  measles;  but  our  children  have  had  it  too, 
so  there's  no  fear.  Come  upstairs,  Mary  Baines." 

Passing,  with  a  thankful  look,  the  room  where  her  own 
boys  slept,  the  good  mother  established  this  forlorn  young 


282  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

mother  and  her  two  children  in  a  little  closet  outside  the 
nursery  door;  cheered  her  with  comforting  words;  helped  her 
ignorance  with  wise  counsels — for  Ursula  was  the  general 
doctress  of  all  the  poor  folk  round.  It  was  almost  midnight 
before  she  came  down  to  the  parlor  where  John  and  I  sat, 
he  with  little  Muriel  asleep  in  his  arms.  The  child  would 
gladly  have  slumbered  away  all  night  there  with  the  delicate, 
pale  profile  pressed  close  into  his  breast. 

"Is  all  right,  love?  How  tired  you  must  be!"  John  put 
his  left  arm  round  his  wife  as  she  came  and  knelt  by  him,  in 
front  of  the  cheerful  fire. 

"Tired?  Oh,  of  course;  but  you  can't  think  how  com- 
fortable they  are  upstairs.  Only  poor  Mary  Baines  does  noth- 
ing but  cry,  and  keep  telling  me  that  nothing  ails  her  lad  but 
hunger.  Are  they  so  very  poor?" 

John  did  not  immediately  answer;  I  fancied  he  looked  sud- 
denly uneasy  and  imperceptibly  pressed  his  little  girl  closer 
to  him. 

"The  lad  seems  very  ill.  Much  worse  than  our  children 
were  with  measles." 

"Yet  how  they  suffered,  poor  pets!  especially  Walter.  It 
was  the  thought  of  them  made  me  pity  her  so.  Surely  I  have 
not  done  wrong?" 

"No,  love;  quite  right  and  kind.  Acting  so,  I  think  one 
need  not  fear.  See,  mother,  how  soundly  Muriel  sleeps.  It's 
almost  a  pity  to  waken  her,  but  we  must  go  to  bed  now." 

"Stay  one  minute,"  I  said.  "Tell  us,  John — I  quite  forgot 
to  ask  till  now — what  is  that  'painful  business'  you  men- 
tioned, which  called  the  sheriff  to  Lord  Luxmore's?" 

John  glanced  at  his  wife,  leaning  fondly  against  him,  her 
face  full  of  sweet  peace,  then  at  his  little  daughter  asleep,  then 
round  the  cheerful  fire-lit  room,  outside  which  the  autumn 
night-wind  went  howling  furiously. 

"Love,  that  we  are  so  happy,  we  must  not,  dare  not,  con- 
demn." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  shocked  inquiry.  "You  don't 
mean No;  it  is  impossible!" 

"It  is  true.    She  has  gone  away." 

Ursula  sank  down,  hiding  her  face.  "Horrible!  And  only 
two  days  since  she  was  here,  kissing  our  children." 

We  all  three  kept  a  long  silence;  then  I  ventured  to  ask 
when  she  went  away? 

"This  morning,  early.    They  took — at  least  Mr.  Vermilye 


JOHN  HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  283 

did — all  the  property  of  Lord  Luxmore's  that  he  could  lay  his 
hands  upon — family  jewels,  and  money  to  a  considerable 
amount.  The  earl  is  pursuing  him  now,  not  only  as  his  daugh- 
ter's seducer,  but  as  a  swindler  and  a  thief/' 

"And  Richard  Brithwood?" 

"Drinks — and  drinks— and  drinks.  That  is  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  all." 

There  was  no  more  to  be  said.  She  had  dropped  forever 
out  of  her  old  life,  as  completely  as  a  star  out  of  the  sky. 
Henceforth  for  years  and  years,  neither  in  her  home,  nor, 
I  believe,  in  any  other,  was  there  the  slightest  mention  made 
of  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood. 

All  the  next  day  John  was  from  home,  settling  the  Kings- 
well  affair.  The  ejected  tenants — our  tenants  now — left  us 
at  last,  giving  a  parting  cheer  for  Mr.  Halifax,  the  best  master 
in  all  England. 

Sitting  down  to  tea  with  no  small  relief  that  all  was  over, 
John  asked  his  wife  after  the  sick  lad. 

"He  is  very  ill  still,  I  think." 

"Are  you  sure  it  is  measles?" 

"I  imagine  so;  and  I  have  seen  nearly  all  childish  diseases, 
except — no,  that  is  quite  impossible!"  added  the  mother  has- 
tily. She  cast  an  anxious  glance  on  her  little  ones;  her  hand 
slightly  shook  as  she  poured  out  their  cups  of  milk.  "Do  you 
think,  John — it  was  hard  to  do  it  when  the  child  is  so  ill — I 
ought  to  have  sent  them  away  with  the  others?" 

"Certainly  not.  If  it  were  anything  dangerous,  of  course 
Mary  Baines  would  have  told  us.  What  are  the  lad's  symp- 
toms?" 

As  Ursula  informed  him,  I  thought  he  looked  more  and 
more  serious;  but  he  did  not  let  her  see. 

"Make  your  mind  easy,  love;  a  word  from  Dr.  Jessop  will 
decide  all.  I  will  fetch  him  after  tea.  Cheer  up!  Please  God, 
no  harm  will  come  to  our  little  ones!" 

The  mother  brightened  again;  with  her  all  the  rest;  and 
the  tea-table  clatter  went  on,  merry  as  ever.  Then,  it  being  a 
wet  night,  Mrs.  Halifax  gathered  her  boys  round  her  knee  for 
an  evening  chat  over  the  kitchen-fire,  while  through  the  open 
door,  out  of  the  dim  parlor,  came  "Muriel's  voice,"  as  we  called 
the  harpsichord.  It  seemed  sweeter  than  ever  this  night,  like 
— as  her  father  once  said,  but  checked  himself,  and  never  said 
it  afterward — like  Muriel  talking  with  the  angels. 


284  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

He  sat  listening  awhile,  then,  without  any  remark,  put 
on  his  coat  and  went  out  to  fetch  the  good  doctor.  I  fol- 
lowed him  down  to  the  stream. 

'Thineas,"  he  said,  "will  you  mind — don't  notice  it  to  the 
mother — but  mind  and  keep  her  and  the  children  down- 
stairs till  I  come  back?" 

I  promised.    "Are  you  uneasy  about  Mary  Barnes'  lad?" 

"No;  I  have  full  trust  in  human  means,  and,  above  all,  in 
—what  I  need  not  speak  of.  Still,  precautions  are  wise.  Do 
you  remember  that  day  when,  rather  against  Ursula's  wish, 
J  vaccinated  the  children?" 

I  remembered.  Also  that  the  virus  had  taken  effect  with  all 
but  Muriel;  and  we  had  lately  talked  of  repeating  the  much- 
blamed  and  miraculous  experiment  upon  her.  I  hinted  this. 

"Phineas,  you  mistake,"  he  answered,  rather  sharply.  "She 
is  quite  safe — as  safe  as  the  others.  I  wrote  to  Dr.  Jenner 
himself.  But  don't  mention  that  I  spoke  about  this." 

"Why?" 

"Because  to-day  I  heard  that  they  have  had  the  small-pox 
at  Kingswell." 

I  felt  a  cold  shudder.  Though  inoculation  and  vaccination 
had  made  it  less  fatal  among  the  upper  classes,  this  frightful 
scourge  still  decimated  the  poor,  especially  children.  Great 
was  the  obstinacy  in  refusing  relief;  and  loud  the  outcry  in 
Norton  Bury,  when  Mr.  Halifax,  who  had  met  and  known  Dr. 
Jenner  in  London,  finding  no  practitioner  that  would  do  it, 
persisted  in  administering  the  vaccine  virus  himself  to  his 
children.  But  still,  with  natural  fear,  he  had  kept  them  out 
of  all  risk  of  taking  the  small-pox  until  now. 

"John,  do  you  think " 

"No;  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  think.  Not  a  word  of 
this  at  home,  mind.  Good-bye!" 

He  walked  away,  and  I  returned  up  the  path  heavily,  as 
if  a  cloud  of  terror  and  dole  were  visibly  hanging  over  our 
happy  Longfield. 

The  doctor  appeared;  he  went  up  to  the  sick  lad;  then  he 
and  Mr.  Halifax  were  closeted  together  for  a  long  time.  After 
he  was  gone,  John  came  into  the  kitchen,  where  Ursula  sat 
with  Walter  on  her  knee.  The  child  was  in  his  little  white 
night-gown,  playing  with  his  elder  brothers,  and  warming 
his  rosy  toes. 

The  mother  had  recovered  herself  entirely:   was  content 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  285 

and  gay.  I  saw  John's  glance  at  her,  and  then — and  then  I 
feared. 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?    The  child  will  soon  be  well?" 

"We  must  hope  so." 

"John,  what  do  you  mean?  I  thought  the  little  fellow 
looked  better  when  I  went  up  to  see  him  last.  And  there — 
I  hear  the  poor  mother  upstairs  crying." 

"She  may  cry;  she  has  need,"  said  John,  bitterly.  "She 
knew  it  all  the  while.  She  never  thought  of  our  children; 
but  they  are  safe.  Be  content,  love — please  God,  they  are 
quite  safe.  Very  few  take  it  after  vaccination." 

"It — do  you  mean  the  small-pox?  Has  the  lad  got  small- 
pox? Oh,  God  help  us!  My  children!  my  children!" 

She  grew  white  as  death;  long  shivers  came  over  her  from 
head  to  foot.  The  little  boys,  frightened,  crept  up  to  her; 
she  clasped  them  all  together  in  her  arms,  turning  her  head 
with  a  wild,  savage  look,  as  if  some  one  were  stealing  behind 
to  take  them  from  her. 

Muriel,  perceiving  the  silence,  felt  her  way  across  the  room, 
and  touching  her  mother's  face,  said,  anxiously,  "Has  anybody 
been  naughty?" 

"No,  my  darling;   no." 

"Then  never  mind.  Father  says,  nothing  will  harm  us 
except  being  naughty.  Did  you  not,  father?" 

John  snatched  his  little  daughter  up  to  his  bosom,  and 
called  her  for  the  hundredth  time  the  name  my  poor  old 
father  had  named  her,  the  "blessed"  child. 

We  all  grew  calmer;  the  mother  wept  a  little,  and  it  did 
her  good;  we  comforted  the  boys  and  Muriel,  telling  them 
that  in  truth  nothing  was  the  matter,  only  we  were  afraid 
of  their  catching  the  little  lad's  sickness,  and  they  must  not 
go  near  him. 

"Yes;  she  shall  quit  the  house  this  minute — this  very  min- 
ute!" said  the  mother  sternly,  but  with  a  sort  of  wildness 
too. 

Her  husband  made  no  immediate  answer;  but  as  she  rose 
to  leave  the  room,  he  detained  her.  "Ursula,  do  you  know  the 
child  is  all  but  dying?" 

"Let  him  die!  The  wicked  woman!  She  knew  it,  and 
she  let  me  bring  him  among  my  children — my  own  poor  chil- 
dren!" 

"I  would  she  had  never  come.    But  what  is  done  is  done. 


286  JOHN  HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

Love,  think — if  you  were  turned  out  of  doors  this  bleak,  rainy 
night — with  a  dying  child." 

"Hush !  hush !"    She  sank  down  with  a  sob. 

"My  darling!"  whispered  John,  as  he  made  her  lean  against 
him — her  support  and  comfort  in  all  things;  "do  you  think 
my  heart  is  not  ready  to  break,  like  yours?  But  I  trust  in 
God.  This  trouble  came  upon  us  while  we  were  doing  right; 
let  us  do  right  still  and  we  need  not  fear.  Humanly  speaking, 
our  children  are  safe;  it  is  only  our  own  terror  which  exag- 
gerates the  danger.  They  may  not  take  the  disease  at  all. 
Then,  how  could  we  answer  it  to  our  conscience  if  we  turned 
out  this  poor  soul,  and  her  child  died?" 

"No!    no!" 

"We  will  use  all  precautions.  The  boys  shall  be  moved  to 
the  other  end  of  the  house." 

I  proposed  that  they  should  occupy  my  room  as  I  had  had 
small-pox,  and  was  safe. 

"Thank  you,  Phineas:  and  even  should  they  take  it,  Dr. 
Jenner  has  assured  me  that  in  every  case  after  vaccination 
it  has  been  the  very  slightest  form  of  the  complaint.  Be  pa- 
tient, love;  trust  in  God  and  have  no  fear." 

Her  husband's  voice  gradually  calmed  her.  At  last  she 
turned  and  clung  round  his  neck,  silently  and  long.  Then 
she  rose  up  and  went  about  her  usual  duties,  just  as  if  this 
horrible  dread  were  not  upon  us. 

Mary  Baines  and  her  children  stayed  in  the  house.  Next 
day,  about  noon,  the  little  lad  died. 

It  was  the  first  death  that  had  ever  happened  under  our 
roof.  It  shocked  us  all  very  much,  especially  the  children. 
We  kept  them  far  away  on  the  other  side  of  the  house — out 
of  the  house  when  possible;  but  still  they  would  be  coming 
back  and  looking  up  at  the  window,  at  which,  as  Muriel  de- 
clared, the  little  sick  boy  "had  turned  into  an  angel  and  flown 
away."  The  mother  allowed  the  fancy  to  remain;  she  thought 
it  wrong  and  horrible  that  a  child's  first  idea  of  death  should 
be  "putting  into  the  pit-hole."  Truer  and  more  beautiful 
was  Muriel's  instinctive  notion  of  "turning  into  an  angel  and 
flying  away."  So  we  arranged  that  the  poor  little  body  should 
be  coffined  and  removed  before  the  children  rose  next  morn- 
ing. 

It  was  a  very  quiet  tea-time.  A  sense  of  awe  was  upon 
the  little  ones,  they  knew  not  why.  Many  questions  they  asked 
about  poor  Tommy  Baines,  and  where  he  had  gone  to;  which 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  287 

the  mother  only  answered  after  the  simple  manner  of  Scrip- 
ture— he  "was  not,  for  God  took  him."  But  when  they  saw 
Mary  Baines  go  crying  down  the  field-path,  Muriel  asked  "why 
she  cried?  how  could  she  cry,  when  it  was  God  who  had  taken 
little  Tommy?" 

Afterward  she  tried  to  learn  of  me,  privately,  what  sort 
of  a  place  it  was  he  had  gone  to,  and  how  he  went;  whether 
he  had  carried  with  him  all  his  clothes,  and  especially  the 
great  bunch  of  woodbine  she  sent  to  him  yesterday;  and, 
above  all,  whether  he  had  gone  by  himself,  or  if  some  of  the 
"angels,"  which  held  so  large  a  place  in  Muriel's  thoughts, 
and  of  which  she  was  ever  talking,  had  come  to  fetch  him 
and  take  care  of  him.  She  hoped — indeed,  she  felt  sure — 
they  had.  She  wished  she  had  met  them,  or  heard  them  about 
in  the  house. 

And  seeing  how  the  child's  mind  was  running  on  the  sub- 
ject, I  thought  it  best  to  explain  to  her  as  simply  as  I  could 
the  solemn  putting  off  of  life  and  putting  on  of  immortality. 
I  wished  that  my  darling,  who  could  never  visibly  behold 
death,  should  understand  it  as  no  image  of  terror,  but  only 
as  a  calm  sleep  and  a  joyful  waking  in  another  country,  the 
glories  of  which  eye  had  not  seen  nor  ear  heard. 

"Eye  has  not  seen,"  repeated  Muriel,  thoughtfully;  "can 
people  see  there,  Uncle  Phineas?" 

"Yes,  my  child.    There  is  no  darkness  at  all." 

She  paused  a  minute  and  said  earnestly,  "I  want  to  go — 
I  very  much  want  to  go.  How  long  do  you  think  it  will  be 
before  the  angels  come  for  me?" 

"Many,  many  years,  my  precious  one,"  said  I  shuddering; 
for  truly  she  looked  so  like  them  that  I  began  to  fear  they  were 
close  at  hand. 

But  a  few  minutes  afterward  she  was  playing  with  her 
brothers  and  talking  to  her  pet  doves  so  sweet  and  human- 
like that  the  fear  passed  away. 

We  sent  the  children  early  to  bed  that  night  and  sat 
long  by  the  fire,  consulting  how  best  to  remove  infection,  and 
almost  satisfied  that  in  these  two  days  it  could  not  have  taken 
any  great  hold  on  the  house.  John  was  firm  in  his  belief  in 
Dr.  Jenner  and  vaccination.  "We  went  to  bed  greatly  com- 
forted, and  the  household  sank  into  quiet  slumbers,  even 
though  under  its  roof  slept  in  deeper  sleep  the  little  dead 
child. 

That  small  closet,  which  was  next  to  the  nursery  I  occu- 


288  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

pied,  safely  shut  out  by  it  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  seemed 
very  still  now.  I  went  to  sleep  thinking  of  it,  and  dreamed 
of  it  afterward. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  a  slight  noise  woke  me,  and 
I  almost  fancied  I  was  dreaming  still;  for  there  I  saw  a 
little  white  figure  gliding  past  my  bed's  foot,  so  softly  and 
soundlessly  it  might  have  been  the  ghost  of  a  child,  and  it 
went  into  the  dead  child's  room. 

For  a  moment  that  superstitious  instinct  which  I  believe 
we  all  have  paralyzed  me.  Then  I  tried  to  listen.  There  was 
most  certainly  a  sound  in  the  next  room — a  faint  cry,  quickly 
smothered — a  very  human  cry.  All  the  stories  I  had  ever 
heard  of  supposed  death  and  premature  burial  rushed  hor- 
ribly into  my  mind.  Conquering  alike  my  superstitious  dread 
or  fear  of  entering  the  infected  room,  I  leaped  out  of  bed, 
threw  on  some  clothes,  got  a  light,  and  went  in. 

There  lay  the  little  corpse  all  safe  and  still,  forever.  And, 
like  its  own  spirit,  watching  in  the  night  at  the  head  of  the 
forsaken  clay,  sat  Muriel. 

I  snatched  her  up  and  ran  with  her  out  of  the  room  in  an 
agony  of  fear. 

She  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder,  trembling.  "I  have  not 
done  wrong,  have  I?  I  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  like — 
that  which  you  said  was  left  of  little  Tommy.  I  touched  it — 
it  was  so  cold!  Oh!  Uncle  Phineas,  that  isn't  poor  little  Tom- 
my?" 

"No,  my  blessed  one — no,  my  dearest  child!  Don't  think 
of  it  any  more." 

And,  hardly  knowing  what  was  best  to  be  done,  I  called 
John,  and  told  him  where  I  had  found  his  little  daughter.  He 
never  spoke,  but  snatched  her  out  of  my  arms  into  his  own, 
took  her  in  his  room,  and  shut  the  door. 

From  that  time  our  fears  never  slumbered.  For  one  whole 
week  we  waited,  watching  the  children  hour  by  hour,  noting 
each  change  in  each  little  face;  then  Muriel  sickened. 

It  was  I  who  was  to  tell  her  father,  when  as  he  came  home 
in  the  evening  I  met  him  by  the  stream.  It  seemed  to  him 
almost  like  the  stroke  of  death. 

"Oh,  my  God!  not  her!  Any  but  her!"  And  by  that  I. 
knew,  what  I  had  long  guessed,  that  she  was  the  dearest  of  all 
his  children. 

Edwin  and  Walter  took  the  disease  likewise,  though  lightly. 
No  one  was  in  absolute  danger  except  Muriel.  But  for  weeks 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  289 

we  had  what  people  call  "sickness  in  the  house;"  that  terrible 
overhanging  shadow  which  mothers  and  fathers  well  know; 
under  which  one  must  live  and  move,  never  resting  night  nor 
day.  This  mother  and  father  hore  their  portion,  and  bore  it 
well.  When  she  broke  down,  which  was  not  often,  he  sus- 
tained her.  If  I  were  to  tell  of  all  he  did — how,  after  being 
out  all  day,  night  after  night  he  would  sit  up  watching  by  and 
nursing  each  little  fretful  sufferer,  patient  as  a  woman,  and 
pleasant  as  a  child  playmate — perhaps  those  who  talk  loftily 
of  "the  dignity  of  man"  would  smile.  I  pardon  them. 

The  hardest  minute  of  the  twenty-four  hours  was,  I  think, 
that  when,  coming  home,  he  caught  sight  of  me  afar  off  wait- 
ing for  him,  as  I  always  did,  at  the  White  Gate;  and  many  a 
time,  as  we  walked  down  to  the  stream,  I  saw — what  no  one 
else  saw  but  God.  After  such  times  I  used  often  to  ponder 
over  what  great  love  His  must  be,  who,  as  the  clearest  revela- 
tion of  it  and  of  its  nature,  calls  Himself  "the  Father." 

And  He  brought  us  safe  through  our  time  of  anguish:  He 
left  us  every  one  of  our  little  ones. 

One  November  Sunday  when  all  the  fields  were  in  a  mist, 
and  the  rain  came  pouring  softly  and  incessantly  upon  the  pa- 
tient earth,  which  had  been  so  torn  and  dried  up  by  east 
winds  that  she  seemed  glad  enough  to  put  aside  the  mockery 
of  sunshine  and  melt  in  quiet  tears,  we  once  more  gathered 
our  flock  together  in  thankfulness  and  joy. 

Muriel  came  down  stairs  triumphantly  in  her  father's  arms 
and  lay  on  the  sofa  smiling;  the  fire-light  dancing  on  her  small 
white  face — white  and  unscarred.  The  disease  had  been  kind 
to  the  blind  child;  she  was,  I  think,  more  sweet-looking  than 
ever.  Older,  perhaps;  the  round  prettiness  of  childhood  gone; 
but  her  whole  appearance  wore  that  inexpressible  expression  in 
which,  for  want  of  a  suitable  word,  we  all  embody  our  vague 
notions  of  the  unknown  world  and  call  "angelic." 

"Does  Muriel  feel  quite  well — quite  strong  and  well?"  the 
father  and  mother  both  kept  saying  every  now  and  then  as 
they  looked  at  her.  She  always  answered,  "Quite  well." 

In  the  afternoon,  when  the  boys  were  playing  in  the  kitch- 
en, and  John  and  I  were  standing  at  the  open  door,  listening 
to  the  dropping  of  the  rain  in  the  garden,  we  heard,  after  its 
long  silence,  Muriel's  "voice." 

"Father,  listen!"  whispered  the  mother,  linking  her  arm 
through  his  as  he  stood  at  the  door.  Soft  and  slow  came  the 
notes  of  the  old  harpsichord — she  was  playing  one  of  the  Ab- 

19 


290  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

bey  anthems.     Then  it  melted  away  into  melodies  we  knew 
not — sweet  and  strange.     Her  parents  looked  at  one  another 
— their  hearts  were  full  of  thankfulness  and  joy. 
"And  Mary  Baines'  little  lad  is  in  the  church-yard." 


CHAPTEE  XXVI. 

"What  a  comfort!  the  daylight  is  lengthening.  I  think 
this  has  been  the  very  dreariest  winter  I  ever  knew.  Has  it 
not,  my  little  daughter?  Who  brought  her  these  violets?" 

And  John  placed  himself  on  a  corner  of  my  own  particular 
arm-chair,  where,  somehow  or  other,  Muriel  always  lay  curled 
up  at  tea-time  now  (ay,  and  many  hours  in  the  day-time, 
though  we  hardly  noticed  it  at  first).  Taking  between  his 
hands  the  little  face,  which  broke  into  smiles  at  the  merest 
touch  of  the  father's  fingers,  he  asked  her  "when  she  intended 
to  go  a  walk  with  him?" 

"To-morrow." 

"So  we  have  said  for  a  great  many  to-morrows,  but  it  is  al- 
ways put  off.  What  do  you  think,  mother — is  the  little  maid 
strong  enough?" 

Mrs.  Halifax  hesitated;  said  something  about  "east  winds." 

"Yet  I  think  it  would  do  her  good  if  she  braved  east  winds, 
and  played  out-of-doors  as  the  boys  do.  Would  you  not  like 
it,  Muriel?" 

The  child  shrank  back  with  an  involuntary  "Oh  no!" 

"That  is  because  she  is  a  little  girl,  necessarily  less  strong 
than  the  lads  are.  Is  it  not  so,  Uncle  Phineas?"  continued 
her  father,  hastily,  for  I  was  watching  them. 

"Muriel  will  be  quite  strong  when  the  warm  weather  comes. 
We  have  had  such  a  severe  winter.  Every  one  of  the  children 
has  suffered,"  said  the  mother,  in  a  cheerful  tone,  as  she 
poured  out  a  cup  of  cream  for  her  daughter,  to  whom  was 
now  given,  by  common  consent,  all  the  richest  and  rarest  of 
the  house. 

"I  think  every  one  has,"  said  John,  looking  round  on  his 
apple-cheeked  boys.  It  must  have  been  a  sharp  eye  that  de- 
tected any  decrease  of  health,  or  increase  of  suffering,  there. 
"But  my  plan  will  set  all  to  rights.  I  spoke  to  Mrs.  Tod  yes- 
terday. She  will  be  ready  to  take  us  all  in.  Boys,  shall  you 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  291 

like  going  to  Enderley?  You  shall  go  as  soon  as  ever  the 
larch-wood  is  green." 

For,  at  Longlield,  already  we  began  to  make  a  natural  al- 
manac and  chronological  table.  "When  the  May  was  out" — 
"When  Guy  found  the  first  robin's  nest" — "When  the  field 
was  all  cowslips" — and  so  on. 

"Is  it  absolutely  necessary  we  should  go  ?"  said  the  mother, 
who  had  a  strong  home-clinging,  and  already  began  to  hold 
tiny  Longfield  as  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

"I  think  so,  unless  you  will  consent  to  let  me  go  alone  to 
Enderley." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What!  with  those  troubles  at  the  mills?  How  can  you 
speak  so  lightly?" 

"Not  lightly,  love — only  cheerfully.  The  troubles  must  be 
borne;  why  not  bear  them  with  as  good  heart  as  possible? 
They  cannot  last,  let  Lord  Luxmore  do  what  he  will.  If,  as  I 
told  you,  we  relet  Longfield  for  this  one  summer  to  Sir  Ealph, 
we  shall  save  enough  to  put  the  mill  in  thorough  repair."  If 
my  landlord  will  not  do  it,  I  will;  and  add  a  steam-engine, 
too." 

Now  the  last  was  a  daring  scheme,  discussed  many  a  winter 
night  by  us  three  in  Longfield  parlor.  At  first  Mrs.  Halifax 
had  looked  grave;  most  women  would,  especially  wives  and 
mothers,  in  those  days  when  every  innovation  was  regarded 
with  horror,  and  improvement  and  ruin  were  held  synony- 
mous. She  might  have  thought  so,  too,  had  she  not  believed 
in  her  husband.  But  now,  at  mention  of  the  steam-engine, 
she  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"Lady  Oldtower  asked  me  about  it  to-day.  She  said,  fshe 
hoped  you  would  not  ruin  yourself  like  Mr.  Miller,  of  Glas- 
gow!' I  said  I  was  not  afraid." 

Her  husband  returned  a  bright  look.  "It  is  easy  to  make 
the  world  trust  one,  when  one  is  trusted  by  one's  own  house- 
hold." 

"Ah!  never  fear;  you  will  make  your  fortune  yet,  in  spite  of 
Lord  Luxmore/' 

For,  all  winter,  John  had  found  out  how  many  cares  come 
with  an  attained  wish.  Chiefly  because,  as  the  earl  had  said, 
his  lordship  possessed  an  "excellent  memory."  The  Kings- 
well  election  had  worked  its  results  in  a  hundred  small  ways, 
wherein  the  heavy  hand  of  the  landlord  could  be  laid  upon 
the  tenant.  He  bore  up  bravely  against  it;  but  hard  was  the 


292  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

struggle  between  might  and  right,  oppression  and  stanch  re- 
sistance. It  would  have  gone  harder  but  for  one  whom  John 
now  began  to  call  his  "friend;"  at  least,  one  who  invariably 
called  Mr.  Halifax  so — our  neighbor,  Sir  Ealph  Oldtower. 

"How  often  has  Lady  Oldtower  been  here,  Ursula?" 

"She  called  first,  you  remember,  after  our  trouble  with  the 
children;  she  has  been  twice  since,  I  think.  To-day  she 
wanted  me  to  bring  Muriel  and  take  luncheon  at  the  Manor 
House.  I  shall  not  go;  I  told  her  so." 

"But  gently,  I  hope?  you  are  so  very  outspoken,  love.  You 
made  her  clearly  understand  that  it  is  not  from  incivility  we 
decline  her  invitations?  Well,  never  mind.  Some  day  we 
will  take  our  place,  and  so  shall  our  children,  with  any  gentry 
in  the  land." 

I  think — though  John  rarely  betrayed  it — he  had  strongly 
this  presentiment  of  future  power,  which  may  often  be  no- 
ticed in  men  who  have  carved  out  their  own  fortunes.  They 
have  in  them  the  instinct  to  rise;  and  as  surely  as  water  regains 
its  own  level,  so  do  they,  from  however  low  a  source,  ascend  to 
theirs. 

Not  many  weeks  after,  we  removed  in  a  body  to  Enderley. 
Though  the  chief  reason  was,  that  John  might  be  constantly 
on  thu  spot,  superintending  his  mills,  yet  I  fancied  I  could 
detect  a  secondary  reason,  which  he  would  not  own  even  to 
himself;  but  which  peered  out  unconsciously  in  his  anxious 
looks.  I  saw  it  when  he  tried  to  rouse  Muriel  into  energy  by 
telling  her  how  much  she  would  enjoy  Enderley  Hill;  how 
sweet  the  primroses  grew  in  the  beech-wood,  and  how  wild  and 
fresh  the  wind  swept  over  the  common,  morning  and  night. 
His  daily  longing  seemed  to  be  to  make  her  love  the  world  and 
the  things  therein.  He  used  to  turn  away,  almost  in  pain, 
from  her  smile,  as  she  would  listen  to  all  he  said,  then  steal 
off  to  the  harpischord,  and  begin  that  soft,  dreamy  music 
which  the  children  called  "talking  to  angels." 

We  came  to  Enderley  through  the  valley,  where  was  John's 
cloth  mill.  Many  a  time  in  our  walks  he  and  I  had  passed  it, 
and  stopped  to  listen  to  the  drowsy  fall  of  the  miniature 
Niagara,  or  watch  the  incessant  turning,  turning,  of  the  great 
water  wheel.  Little  we  thought  he  should  ever  own  it,  or  that 
John  would  be  pointing  it  out  to  his  own  boys,  lecturing  them 
on  "undershot"  and  "overshot,"  as  he  used  to  lecture  me. 

It  was  sweet,  though  half  melancholy,  to  see  Enderley  again; 
to  climb  the  steep  meadows,  and  narrow  mule-paths,  up  which 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  293 

he  used  to  help  me  so  kindly.  He  could  not  now;  he  had  his 
little  daughter  in  his  arms.  It  had  come,  alas!  to  be  a  regular 
thing  that  Muriel  should  be  carried  up  every  slight  ascent,  and 
along  every  hard  road.  We  paused  half  way  up  on  a  low  wall, 
where  I  had  many  a  time  rested,  watching  the  sunset  over 
ISTunneley  Hill — watching  for  John  to  come  home.  Every 
night — at  least  after  Miss  March  went  away — he  usually  found 
me  sitting  there. 

He  turned  to  me  and  smiled.  "Dost  remember  lad?"  at 
which  appellation  Guy  widely  stared.  But,  for  a  minute,  how 
strangely  it  brought  back  old  times,  when  there  were  neither 
wife  nor  children — only  he  and  I!  This  seat  on  the  wall, 
with  its  small  twilight  picture  of  the  valley  below  the  mill,  and 
jSTunneley  heights,  with  that  sentinel  row  of  sunset  trees,  was 
all  mine — mine  solely — for  evermore. 

"Enderley  is  just  the  same,  Phineas.  Twelve  years  have 
made  no  change  except  in  us."  And  he  looked  fondly  at  his 
wife,  who  stood  a  little  way  off,  holding  firmly  on  the  wall,  in 
a  hazardous  group,  her  three  boys.  "I  think  the  chorus  and 
comment  on  all  life  might  be  included  in  two  brief  phrases 
given  by  our  friend  Shakespeare,  one  to  Hamlet,  the  other  to 
Othello — '  'Tis  very  strange,'  and  '  'Tis  better  as  it  is.'  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  I,  thoughtfully.  "Better  as  it  was;  better,  a 
thousand  times." 

I  went  to  Mrs.  Halifax,  and  helped  her  to  describe  the  pros- 
pect to  the  inquisitive  boys;  finally  coaxing  the  refractory  Guy 
up  the  winding  road,  where,  just  as  if  it  had  been  yesterday, 
stood  my  old  friends,  my  four  Lombardy  poplars,  three  to- 
gether and  one  apart. 

Mrs.  Tod  descried  us  afar  off,  and  was  waiting  at  the  gate; 
a  little  stouter,  a  little  rosier — that  was  all.  In  her  delight 
she  absolutely  forgot  herself  as  to  address  the  mother  as  Miss 
March;  at  which  long-unspoken  name  Ursula  started,  her  col- 
or went  and  came,  and  her  eyes  turned  restlessly  toward  the 
church  hard  by. 

"It  is  all  right,  Miss — Ma'am,  I  mean.  Tod  bears  in  mind 
Mr.  Halifax's  orders,  and  has  planted  lots  o'  flower-roots  and 
evergreens." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

And  when  she  had  put  all  her  little  ones  to  bed,  we,  won- 
dering where  the  mother  was — went  out  toward  the  little 
church-yard,  and  found  her  quietly  sitting  there. 

We  were  very  happy  at  Enderley.     Muriel  brightened  up 


294  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

before  she  had  been  there  many  days.  She  began  to  throw  off 
her  listlessness,  and  go  about  with  me  everywhere.  It  was 
the  season  she  enjoyed  most — the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds, 
and  the  springing  of  delicate  scented  flowers.  I  myself  never 
loved  the  beech-wood  better  than  did  our  Muriel.  She  used 
continually  to  tell  us,  this  was  the  happiest  spring  she  had 
ever  had  in  her  life. 

John  was  much  occupied  now.  He  left  his  Norton  Bury 
business  under  efficient  care  and  devoted  himself  almost 
wholly  to  the  cloth  mill.  Early  and  late  he  was  there.  Very 
often  Muriel  and  I  followed  him,  and  spent  whole  mornings 
in  the  mill  meadows.  Through  them  the  stream  on  which 
the  machinery  depended  was  led  by  various  contrivances, 
checked  or  increased  in  its  flow,  making  small  ponds,  or  locks, 
or  water-falls.  We  used  to  stay  for  hours  listening  to  its 
murmur,  to  the  sharp,  strange  cry  of  the  swans  that  were  kept 
there,  and  the  twitter  of  the  water-hen  to  her  young  among 
the  reeds.  Then  the  father  would  come  to  us  and  remain  a 
few  minutes,  fondling  Muriel,  and  telling  me  how  things  went 
on  at  the  mill. 

One  morning  as  we  three  sat  there,  on  the  brick-work  of  the 
little  bridge  underneath  an  elm-tree,  round  the  roots  of  which 
the  water  made  a  pool  so  clear  that  we  could  see  a  large  pike 
lying  like  a  black  shadow,  half-way  down,  John  suddenly  said: 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  stream?  Do  you  notice,  Phin- 
eas?" 

"I  have  seen  it  gradually  lowering,  these  two  hours.  I 
thought  you  were  drawing  off  the  water." 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  I  must  look  after  it.  Good-bye, 
my  little  daughter.  Don't  cling  so  fast;  father  will  be  back 
soon:  and  isn't  this  a  sweet  sunny  place  for  a  little  maid  to  be 
lazy  in?" 

His  tone  was  gay,  but  he  had  an  anxious  look.  He  walked 
rapidly  down  the  meadows,  and  went  to  his  mill.  Then  I  saw 
him  retracing  his  steps,  examining  where  the  stream  entered 
the  bounds  of  his  property.  Finally  he  walked  off  toward  the 
little  town  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  beyond  which,  buried  in 
the  woods,  lay  Luxmore  Hall.  It  was  twt>  hours  before  we 
saw  him  again. 

Then  he  came  toward  us,  narrowly  watching  the  stream. 
It  had  sunk  more  and  more — the  muddy  bottom  was  showing 
plainly. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  JJ95 

"Yes,  that's  it;  it  can  be  nothing  else.  I  did  not  think  he 
would  have  dared  to  do  it." 

"Do  what,  John?     Who?" 

"Lord  Luxmore."  He  spoke  in  the  smothered  tones  of 
violent  passion.  "Lord  Luxmore  has  turned  out  of  its  course 
the  stream  that  works  my  mill." 

I  tried  to  urge  that  such  an  act  was  improbable;  in  fact, 
against  the  law. 

"Not  against  the  law  of  the  great  against  the  little!  Be- 
sides, he  gives  a  decent  coloring;  says  he  only  wants  the  use 
of  the  stream  three  days  a  week,  to  make  fountains  at  Luxmore 
Hall.  But  I  see  what  it  is;  I  have  seen  it  coming  a  whole  year. 
He  has  determined  to  ruin  me!" 

John  said  this  in  much  excitement.  He  hardly  felt  Mur- 
iel's tiny  creeping  hands. 

"What  does  'ruin'  mean?    Is  anybody  making  father  an- 

gry?" 

"No,  my  sweet,  not  angry;  only  very,  very  miserable!" 

He  snatched  her  up  and  buried  his  head  in  her  soft,  childish 
bosom.  She  kissed  him  and  patted  his  hair. 

"Never  mind,  dear  father.  You  say  nothing  signifies,  if  we 
are  only  good.  And  father  is  always  good." 

"I  wish  I  were!" 

He  sat  down  with  her  on  his  knee;  the  murmur  of  the  elm- 
leaves  and  the  slow  dropping  of  the  stream  soothed  him.  By- 
and-by  his  spirit  rose,  as  it  always  did,  the  heavier  it  was 
pressed  down. 

"No,  Lord  Luxmore  shall  not  ruin  me!  I  have  thought  of 
a  scheme.  But  first  I  must  speak  to  my  people;  I  shall  have 
to  shorten  wages  for  a  time." 

"How  soon?" 

"To-night.  If  it  must  be  done  better  done  at  once,  before 
winter  sets  in.  Poor  fellows!  it  will  go  hard  with  them; 
they'll  be  hard  upon  me.  But  it  is  only  temporary;  I  must 
reason  them  into  patience,  if  I  can.  God  knows,  it  is  not  they 
alone  who  want  it." 

He  almost  ground  his  teeth  as  he  saw  the  sun  shining  on  the 
far  white  wing  of  Luxmore  Hall. 

"Have  you  no  way  of  righting  yourself?  If  it  is  an  unlaw- 
ful act  why  not  go  to  law  ?" 

"Phineas,  you  forget  my  principle — only  mine,  however;  I 
do  not  force  it  upon  any  one  else — my  firm  principle,  that  I 
will  never  go  to  law.  Never.  I  would  not  like  to  have  it 


296  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

said,  in  contradistinction  to  the  old  saying,  'See  how  these 
Christians  fight !"' 

I  urged  no  more;  since,  whether  abstractedly  the  question 
be  right  or  wrong,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  what  a  man  be- 
lieves to  be  evil,  to  him  it  is  evil. 

"Now,  Uncle  Phineas,  go  you  home  with  Muriel.  Tell  my 
wife  what  has  occurred — say  I  will  come  to  tea  as  soon  as  I 
can.  But  I  may  have  some  little  trouble  with  my  people  here. 
She  must  not  alarm  herself." 

No,  the  mother  never  did.  She  wasted  no  time  in  puerile 
apprehensions — it  was  not  her  nature;  she  had  the  rare  femi- 
nine virtue  of  never  "fidgeting" — at  least  externally.  "What 
was  to  be  borne  she  bore;  what  was  to  be  done  she  did;  but 
she  rarely  madte  any  "fuss"  about  either  her  doings  or  her  suf- 
ferings. 

To-night,  she  heard  all  my  explanation;  understood  it,  I 
think,  more  clearly  than  I — probably  from  being  better  ac- 
quainted with  her  husband's  plans  and  fears.  She  saw  at 
once  the  position  in  which  he  was  placed;  a  grave  one,  to  judge 
by  her  countenance. 

"Then  you  think  John  is  right?" 

"Of  course  I  do." 

I  had  not  meant  it  as  a  question,  or  even  a  doubt.  But  it 
was  pleasant  to  hear  her  thus  answer.  For,  as  I  have  said,  Ur- 
sula was  not  a  woman  to  be  led  blindfold,  even  by  her  husband. 
Sometimes  they  differed  on  minor  points,  and  talked  their  dif- 
ferences lovingly  out;  but  on  any  great  question  she  had  al- 
ways this  safe  trust  in  him — that  if  one  were  right  and  the 
other  wrong,  the  erring  one  was  much  more  likely  to  be  her- 
self than  John. 

She  said  no  more,  but  put  the  children  to  bed;  then  came 
down  stairs  with  her  bonnet  on. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  Phineas?  or  are  you  too  tired?  I 
am  going  down  to  the  mill." 

She  started,  walking  quickly,  yet  not  so  quick  but  that  on 
the  slope  of  the  common  she  stooped  to  pick  up  a  crying  child, 
and  send  it  home  to  its  mother  in  Enderley  village. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  we  met  no  one  else  except  a  young 
man,  whom  I  had  occasionally  seen  about  of  evenings.  He 
was  rather  odd-looking,  being  invariably  muffled  up  in  a  large 
cloak  and  a  foreign  sort  of  hat. 

"Who  is  that  watching  our  mills?"  said  Mrs.  Halifax  hastily. 

I  told  her  all  I  had  seen  of  the  person, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  297 

"A  Papist,  most  likely — I  mean,  a  Catholic."  (John  ob- 
jected to  the  opprobrious  word,  "Papist/')  "Mrs.  Tod  says 
there  are  a  good  many  hidden  hereabouts.  They  used  to  find 
shelter  at  Luxmore." 

And  that  name  set  both  our  thoughts  anxiously  wandering; 
so  that  not  until  we  reached  the  foot  of  the  hill  did  I  notice 
that  the  person  had  followed  us  almost  to  the  mill  gates. 

In  his  empty  mill,  standing  beside  one  of  its  silenced  looms, 
we  found  the  master.  He  was  very  much  dejected.  Ursula 
touched  his  arm  before  he  even  saw  her. 

"Well,  love,  you  know  what  has  happened?" 

"Yes,  John.     But  never  mind." 

"I  would  not,  except  for  my  poor  people." 

"What  do  you  intend  doing?  That  which  you  have  wished 
to  do  all  the  year?" 

"Our  wishes  come  as  a  cross  to  us  sometimes,"  he  said,  rath- 
er bitterly.  "It  is  the  only  thing  I  can  do.  The  water-power 
being  so  greatly  lessened,  I  must  either  stop  the  mills,  or  work 
them  by  steam." 

"Do  that,  then.     Set  up  your  steam-engine." 

"And  have  all  the  country  down  upon  me  for  destroying 
hand-labor?  Have  a  new  set  of  Luddites  coming  to  burn  my 
mill  and  break  my  machinery?  That  is  what  Lord  Luxmore 
wants.  Did  he  not  say  he  would  ruin  me?  Worse  than  this, 
he  is  ruining  my  good  name.  If  you  had  heard  those  poor 
people  whom  I  sent  away  to-night!  What  must  they,  who 
will  have  short  work  these  two  months  and  after  that  ma- 
chinery work,  which  they  fancy  is  taking  the  very  bread  out 
of  their  mouths — what  must  they  think  of  the  master?" 

He  spoke — as  we  rarely  heard  John  speak:  as  worldly  cares 
and  worldly  injustice  cause  even  the  best  of  men  'to  speak 
sometimes. 

"Poor  people!"  he  added,  "how  can  I  blame  them?  I  was 
actually  dumb  before  them  to-night,  when  they  said  I  must 
take  the  cost  of  what  I  do — they  must  have  bread  for  their 
children.  But  so  must  I  for  mine.  Lord  Luxmore  is  the 
cause  of  all." 

Here  I  heard,  or  fancied  I  heard,  out  of  the  black  shadow 
behind  the  loom,  a  heavy  sigh.  John  and  Ursula  were  too 
anxious  to  notice  it. 

"'Could  anything  be  done,"  she  asked,  "just  to  keep  things 
going  till  your  steam-engine  is  ready?  Will  it  cost  much?" 

tnan  I  like  to  think  of.     But  it  must  be;  nothing 


298  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

venture  nothing  have.  You  and  the  children  are  secure, 
anyhow,  that's  one  comfort.  But  oh,  my  poor  people  at  En- 
derley!" 

Again  Ursula  asked  if  nothing  could  be  done? 
"Yes;  I  did  not  think  of  one  plan,  but " 

"John,  I  know  what  you  thought  of." 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  looked  straight  up  at 
him — eye  to  eye.     Often  it  seemed  that  from  long  habit  they 
could  read  one  another's  minds  in  this  way,  clearly  as  a  book. 
At  last  John  said: 

"Would  it  be  too  hard  a  sacrifice,  love?" 

"How  can  you  talk  so?  We  could  do  it  easily,  by  living  in 
a  plainer  way;  by  giving  up  one  or  two  trifles — only  outside 
things,  you  know.  Why  need  we  care  for  outside  things?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  he  said,  in  a  low,  fond  tone. 

So  I  easily  found  out  how  they  meant  to  settle  the  diffi- 
culty; namely,  by  setting  aside  a  portion  of  the  annual  income 
which  John,  in  his  almost  morbid  anxiety  lest  his  family 
(should  take  harm  by  any  possible  non-success  in  his  business, 
had  settled  upon  his  wife.  Three  months  of  little  renuncia- 
tions— three  months  of  the  old  narrow  way  of  living,  as  at 
Norton  Bury — and  the  poor  people  at  Enderley  might  have 
full  wages,  whether  or  not  there  was  full  work.  Then  in  our 
quiet  valley  there  would  be  no  want,  no  murmurings,  and, 
above  all,  no  blaming  of  the  master. 

They  decided  it  all — in  fewer  words  than  I  have  taken  to 
write  it — it  was  so  easy  to  decide  when  both  were  of  one  mind. 

"IsTow,"  said  John,  rising,  as  if  a  load  were  taken  off  his 
breast — "now,  do  what  he  will,  Lord  Luxmore  cannot  do  me 
any  harm." 

"Husband,  don't  let  us  speak  of  Lord  Luxmore." 

Again  that  sigh — quite  ghostly  in  the  darkness.  They 
heard  it  likewise  this  time. 

"Who's  there?" 

"Only  I.     Mr.  Halifax  don't  be  angry  with  me!" 

It  was  the  softest,  mildest  voice — the  voice  of  one  long  used 
to  oppression;  and  the  young  man  whom  Ursula  had  supposed 
to  be  a  Catholic  appeared  from  behind  the  loom. 

"I  do  not  know  you,  sir.     How  came  you  to  enter  mv  mill?" 

"I  followed  Mrs.  Halifax.  I  have  often  watched  her  and 
your  children.  But  you  don't  remember  me." 

Yes;  when  he  came  underneath  the  light  of  the  one  tallow- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  299 

candle  we  all  recognized  the  face — more  wan  than  ever — with 
a  sadder  and  more  hopeless  look  in  the  large  gray  eyes. 

"I  am  surprised  to  see  you  here,  Lord  Ravenel." 

"Hush!  I  hate  the  very  sound  of  the  name.  I  would  have 
renounced  it  long  ago.  I  would  have  hid  myself  away  from 
him  and  from  the  world  if  he  would  have  let  me/' 

"He — do  you  mean  your  father?" 

The  boy — no,  he  was  a  young  man  now,  but  scarcely  looked 
more  than  a  boy — assented  silently,  as  if  afraid  to  utter  the 
name. 

"Would  not  your  coming  here  displease  him?"  said  John, 
always  tenacious  of  trenching  a  hair's  breadth  upon  any  law- 
ful authority. 

"It  matters  not — he  is  away.  He  has  left  me  these  six 
months  alone  at  Luxmore." 

"Have  you  offended  him?"  asked  Ursula  who  had  cast  kind- 
ly looks  on  the  thin  face,  which  perhaps  reminded  her  of  an- 
other— now  forever  banished  from  our  sight  and  his  also. 

"He  hates  me  because  I  am  a  Catholic  and  wish  to  become 
a  monk." 

The  youth  crossed  himself,  then  started  and  looked  round, 
in  terror  of  observers.  "You  will  not  betray  me?  You  are  a 
good  man,  Mr.  Halifax,  and  you  spoke  warmly  for  us.  Tell 
me — I  will  keep  your  secret — are  you  a  Catholic,  too?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"Ah!  I  hoped  you  were.  But  you  are  sure  you  will  not  be- 
tray me?" 

Mr.  Halifax  smiled  at  such  a  possibility.  Yet,  in  truth, 
there  was  some  reason  for  the  young  man's  fears;  since,  even 
in  those  days,  Catholics  were  hunted  down  both  by  law  and  by 
public  opinion  as  virulently  as  Protestant  non-conformists. 
All  who  kept  out  of  the  pale  of  the  national  Church  were  de- 
nounced as  schismatics,  deists,  atheists — it  was  all  one. 

"But  why  do  you  wish  to  leave  the  world?" 

"I  am  sick  of  it.  There  never  was  but  one  in  it  I  cared  for, 
or  who  cared  for  me;  and  now  Sancta  Maria,  or  a  pro  nobis." 

His  lips  moved  in  a  paroxysm  of  prayer — helpless,  parrot- 
learned,  Latin  prayer;  yet,  being  in  earnest,  it  seemed  to  do 
him  good.  The  mother,  as  if  she  heard  in  fancy  that  pitiful 
cry,  which  rose  to  my  memory  too — "Poor  William!"  "don't 
tell  William!"  turned  and  spoke  to  him  kindly,  asking  him  if 
he  would  go  home  with  us. 


300  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

He  looked  exceedingly  surprised.  "I — you  cannot  mean  it? 
After  Lord  Luxmore  has  done  you  all  this  evil?"' 

"Is  that  any  reason  why  I  should  not  do  good  to  his  son — 
that  is  if  I  could?  Can  I?" 

The  lad  lifted  up  those  soft  gray  eyes  and  then  I  remem- 
bered what  his  sister  had  said  of  Lord  Ravenel's  enthusiastic 
admiration  of  Mr.  Halifax.  "Oh,  you  could — you  could!" 

"But  I  and  mine  are  heretics,  you  know." 

"I  will  pray  for  you.  Only  let  me  come  and  see  you — you 
and  your  children." 

"Come,  and  welcome." 

"Heartily  welcome  Lord ' 

"No — not  that  name,  Mrs.  Halifax?  Call  me  as  they  used 
to  call  me  at  St.  Omer — Brother  Anselmo." 

The  mother  was  half  inclined  to  smile;  but  John  never 
smiled  at  any  one's  religious  beliefs,  howsoever  foolish.  He 
held  in  universal  sacredness  that  one  rare  thing — sincerity. 

So  henceforward  "Brother  Anselmo"  was  almost  domesti- 
cated at  Eose  Cottage.  What  would  the  earl  have  said  had  a 
little  bird  flown  over  to  London  and  told  him  that  his  only 
son,  the  heir-apparent  to  his  title  and  political  opinions,  was 
in  constant  and  open  association — for  clandestine  acquaint- 
ance was  against  all  our  laws  and  rules — with  John  Halifax 
the  mill  owner,  John  Halifax  the  radical,  as  he  was  still  called 
sometimes;  imbibing  principles,  modes  of  life  and  of  thought, 
which,  to  say  the  least,  were  decidedly  different  from  those  of 
the  House  of  Luxmore! 

Above  all,  what  would  that  noble  parent  have  said,  had  he 
been  aware  that  this,  his  only  son,  for  whom,  report  whis- 
pered, he  was  already  planning  a  splendid  marriage — as  grand 
in  a  financial  point  of  view  as  that  he  planned  for  his  only 
daughter — that  Lord  Ravenel  was  spending  all  the  love  of  his 
loving  nature  in  the  half-paternal,  half  lover-like  sentiment 
which  a  young  man  will  sometimes  lavish  on  a  mere  child — 
upon  John  Halifax's  little  blind  daughter,  Muriel! 

He  said,  "She  made  him  good" — our  child  of  peace.  He 
would  sit  gazing  on  her  almost  as  if  she  were  his  guardian 
angel,  his  patron  saint.  And  the  little  maid  in  her  quiet  way 
was  very  fond  of  him;  delighting  in  his  company  when  her 
father  was  not  by.  But  no  one  ever  was  to  her  like  her  father. 

The  chief  bond  between  her  and  Lord  Ravenel — or  "An- 
selmo," as  he  would  have  us  call  him — was  music.  He  taught 
her  to  play  on  the  organ,  in  the  empty  church  close  by.  There, 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  301 

during  the  long  midsummer  evenings,  they  two  would  sit 
down  for  hours  in  the  organ-gallery,  while  I  listened  down 
below;  hardly  believing  that  such  heavenly  sounds  could 
come  from  those  small  child-fingers;  almost  ready  to  fancy 
she  had  called  down  some  celestial  harmonist  to  aid  her  in 
playing;  since,  as  we  used  to  say — but  by  some  instinct  never 
said  now — Muriel  was  so  fond  of  "talking  with  the  angels." 

Just  at  this  time  her  father  saw  somewhat  less  of  her  than 
usual.  He  Avas  oppressed  with  business  cares;  daily,  hourly 
vexations.  Only  twice  a  week  the  great  water-wheel,  the  de- 
light of  our  little  Edwin,  as  it  had  once  been  of  his  father, 
might  be  seen  slowly  turning;  and  the  water-courses  along  the 
meadows,  with  their  mechanically  forced  channels  and  their 
pretty  sham  cataracts,  were  almost  always  low  or  dry.  It  ceased 
to  be  a  pleasure  to  walk  in  the  green  hollow,  between  the  two 
grassy  hills  which  heretofore  Muriel  and  I  had  liked  even  bet- 
ter than  the  Flat.  Xow  she  missed  the  noise  of  the  water,  the 
cry  of  the  water-hens,  the  stirring  of  the  reeds.  Above  all, 
she  missed  her  father,  who  was  too  busy  to  come  out  of  his 
mill  to  us,  and  hardly  ever  had  a  spare  minute  even  for  his  lit- 
tle daughter. 

He  was  setting  up  that  wonderful  novelty — a  steam  engine. 
He  had  already  been  to  Manchester  and  elsewhere,  and  seen 
how  the  new  power  was  applied  by  Arkwright,  Hargreaves,  and 
others;  his  own  ingenuity  and  mechanical  knowledge  fur- 
nished the  rest.  He  worked  early  and  late — often  with  his 
own  hands — aided  by  the  men  he  brought  with  him  from 
Manchester.  For  it  was  necessary  to  keep  the  secret,  espe- 
cially in  our  primitive  valley,  until  the  thing  was  complete. 
So  the  ignorant,  simple  mill  people,  when  they  came  for  their 
easy  Saturday's  wages,  only  stood  and  gaped  at  the  mass  of 
iron  and  the  curiously-shaped  brick-work,  and  wondered  what 
on  earth  "the  master"  was  about.  But  he  was  so  thoroughly 
the  "master,"  with  all  his  kindness,  than  no  one  ventured 
either  to  question  or  interfere. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Summer  waned.  Already  the  beech-wood  began  to  turn 
red  and  the  little  yellow  autumn  flowers  to  show  themselves 
all  over  the  common,  while  in  the  midst  of  them  looked  up  the 
large  purple  eye  of  the  ground-thistle.  The  mornings  grew 


302  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ha/y  and  dewy.  We  ceased  to  take  Muriel  out  with  us  in  our 
slow  walk  along  John's  favorite  "terrace"  before  any  one  else 
was  stirring.  Her  father  at  first  missed  her  sorely;  but  al- 
ways kept  repeating  that  "early  walks  were  not  good  for 
children."  At  last  he  gave  up  the  walk  altogether,  and  used 
to  sit  with  her  on  his  knee  in  front  of  the  cottage  till  break- 
fast time. 

After  that,  saying  with  a  kind  of  jealousy  "that  every  one 
of  us  had  more  of  his  little  daughter  than  he,"  he  got  into  a 
habit  of  fetching  her  down  to  the  mill  every  day  at  noon,  and 
carrying  her  about  in  his  arms,  wherever  he  went,  during  the 
rest  of  his  work. 

Many  a  time  I  have  seen  the  rough,  coarse,  blue-handed, 
blue-pinafored  women  of  the  mill  stop  and  look  wistfully  after 
"Master  and  little  blind  miss."  I  often  think  that  the  quiet 
way  in  which  the  Enderley  mill  people  took  the  introduction 
of  machinery,  and  the  peaceableness  with  which  they  watched 
for  weeks  the  setting  up  of  the  steam  engine,  was  partly  ow- 
ing to  their  strong  impression  of  Mr.  Halifax's  goodness  as  a 
father,  and  the  vague,  almost  superstitious  interest  which  at- 
tached to  the  pale,  sweet  face  of  Muriel. 

Enderley  was  growing  dreary,  and  we  began  to  anticipate 
the  cosy  fireside  of  Longfield. 

"The  children  will  all  go  home  looking  better  than  they 
came;  do  you  not  think  so,  Uncle  Phineas?  especially  Muriel?" 

To  that  sentence  I  had  to  answer  with  a  vague  assent;  after 
which  I  was  fain  to  rise  and  walk  away,  thinking  how  blind 
love  was — all  love  save  mine,  which  had  a  gift  for  seeing  the 
saddest  side  of  things. 

When  I  came  back,  I  found  the  mother  and  daughter  talk- 
ing mysteriously  apart.  I  guessed  what  it  was  about,  for  I 
had  overheard  Ursula  saying  they  had  better  tell  the  child;  it 
would  be  "something  for  her  to  look  forward  to — something 
to  amuse  her  next  winter." 

"It  is  a  great  secret,  mind/'  the  mother  whispered,  after  its 
communication. 

"Oh  yes!"  The  tiny  face  smaller  than  ever,  I  thought, 
flushed  brightly.  "But  I  would  much  rather  have  a  little 
sister,  if  you  please.  Only" — and  the  child  suddenly  grew 
earnest — "will  she  be  like  me?" 

"Possibly;  sisters  often  are  alike." 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that;  but — you  know?"  And  Muriel 
touched  her  own  eyes.,  - 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  803 

"I "cannot  tell,  my  daughter.  In  all  things  else  pray  God 
she  may  be  like  you,  Muriel,  my  darling — my  child  of  peace!" 
said  L1  rsula,  embracing  her  with  tears. 

After  this  confidence,  of  which  Muriel  was  very  proud,  and 
only  condescended,  upon  gaining  express  permission,  to  re- 
confide  it  to  me,  she  talked  incessantly  of  the  sister  that  was 
coming,  until  "little  Maud" — the  name  she  chose  for  her — 
became  an  absolute  entity  in  the  household. 

The  dignity  and  glory  of  being  sole  depository  of  this  mo- 
mentous fact  seemed  for  a  time  to  put  new  life — bright  human 
life — into  this  little  maid  of  eleven  years  old.  She  grew 
quite  womanly,  as  it  were;  tried  to  help  her  mother  in  a  thou- 
sand little  ways,  and  especially  by  her  own  solitary  branch  of 
feminine  industry — poor  darling!  She  set  on  a  pair  of  the 
daintiest  elfin  socks  that  ever  were  knitted.  I  found  them 
years  after — one  finished,  one  with  the  needles  (all  rusty) 
stuck  through  the  fine  worsted  ball,  just  as  the  child  had  laid 
it  out  of  her  hand.  Ah,  Muriel,  Muriel! 

The  father  took  great  delight  in  this  change — in  her  re- 
suming her  simple  work,  and  going  about  constantly  with  her 
mother. 

"What  a  comfort  she  will  be  to  Ursula  one  day;  an  eldest 
daughter  always  is.  So  will  she;  will  she  not,  Uncle  Phin- 
eas?" 

I  smiled  assentingly.  Alas!  his  burdens  were  heavy 
enough!  I  think  I  did  right  to  smile. 

"We  must  take  her  down  with  us  to  see  the  steam  engine 
first  worked.  I  wish  Ursula  would  have  gone  home  without 
waiting  for  to-morrow.  But  there  is  no  fear — my  men  are  so 
quiet  and  good-humored.  What  in  most  mills  has  been  a  day 
of  outrage  and  dread,  is  with  us  quite  a  festival.  Boys,  shall 
you  like  to  come?  Edwin,  my  practical  lad,  my  lad  that  is  to 
carry  on  the  mills — will  you  promise  to  hold  fast  by  Uncle 
Phineas,  if  I  let  you  see  the  steam  engine  work?" 

Edwin  lifted  up  from  his  slate  bright,  penetrating  eyes.  He 
was  quite  an  old  man  in  his  ways — wise  even  from  his  baby- 
hood, and  quiet  even  when  Guy  snubbed  him;  but  I  noticed 
he  did  not  come  to  "kiss  and  make  friends"  so  soon  as  Guy. 
And  though  Guy  was  much  the  naughtiest,  we  all  loved  him 
best.  Poor  Guy!  he  had  the  frankest,  warmest,  tenderest  boy- 
heart;  always  struggling  to  be  good,  and  never  able  to  accom- 
plish it. 

"Father,"  cried  Guy,  "I  want  to  see  the  steam  engine  move; 


304  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

but  I'll  not  be  a  baby  like  Edwin!  I'll  not  hold  Uncle  Phineas* 
hand." 

Hereupon  ensued  one  of  those  summer  storms  which  some- 
times swept  across  the  family  horizon,  in  the  midst  of  which 
Muriel  and  I  stole  out  into  the  empty  church,  where,  almost 
in  the  dark — which  was  no  dark  to  her — for  a  long  hour  she 
sat  and  played.  By-and-by  the  moon  looked  in,  showing  the 
great  gilt  pipes  of  the  organ  and  the  little  fairy  figure  sitting 
below. 

Once  or  twice  she  stooped  from  the  organ-loft  to  ask  me 
where  was  Brother  Anselmo,  who  usually  met  us  in  the  church 
of  evenings,  and  whom  to-night — this  last  night  before  the 
general  household  moved  back  to  Longfield — we  had  fully  ex- 
pected. 

At  last  he  came,  sat  down  by  me,  and  listened.  She  was 
playing  a  fragment  of  one  of  his  Catholic  masses.  When  it 
ended  he  called  "Muriel!" 

Her  soft,  glad  answer  came  down  from  the  gallery. 

"Child,  play  the  'Miserere'  I  taught  you." 

She  obeyed,  making  the  organ  wail  like  a  tormented  soul. 
Truly,  no  tales  I  ever  heard  of  young  Wesley  and  the  infant 
Mozart  ever  surpassed  the  wonderful  playing  of  our  blind 
child. 

"Now  the  'Dies  Irae/  It  will  come,"  he  muttered,  "to  us 
all." 

The  child  struck  a  few  notes,  heavy  and  dolorous,  filling  the 
church  like  a  thunder-cloud,  then  suddenly  left  off,  and  open- 
ing the  flute-stop,  burst  into  altogether  different  music.  "That 
is  Handel — *I  know  that  my  Eedeemer  liveth.'  " 

Exquisitely  she  played  it,  the  clear  treble  notes  seeming  to 
utter  like  a  human  voice,  the  very  words: 

"I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth.  He  shall  stand  at  the  latter 
day  upon  the  earth." 

"And  though  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I 
see  God." 

With  that  she  ceased. 
"More,  more!"  we  both  cried. 
"Not  now — no  more  now." 

And  we  heard  her  shutting  up  the  stops  and  closing  the 
organ-lid. 
"But  my  little  Muriel  has  not  finished  her  tune?" 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  305 

"She  will  some  day,"  said  the  child. 

So  she  came  down  from  the  organ  loft,  feeling  her  way 
along  the  aisles;  and  we  all  went  out  together,  locking  the 
church  door. 

Lord  Eavenel  was  rather  sad  that  night;  he  was  going  away 
from  Luxmore  for  some  time.  We  guessed  why — because  the 
earl  was  coining.  Bidding  us  good-bye  he  said  mournfully,  to 
his  little  pet:  "I  wish  I  were  not  leaving  you.  Will  you  re- 
member me,  Muriel?" 

"Stoop  down;  I  want  to  see  you." 

This  was  her  phrase  for  a  way  she  had  of  passing  her  ex- 
tremely sensitive  fingers  over  the  faces  of  those  she  liked. 
After  which  she  always  said  she  "saw"  them. 

"Yes;  I  shall  remember  you." 

"And  love  me?" 

"And  love  you,  Brother  Anselmo." 

He  kissed,  not  her  cheek  or  mouth,  but  her  little  child- 
hands,  reverently,  as  if  she  had  been  the  saint  he  worshiped, 
or  perhaps,  the  woman  whom  afterward  he  would  learn  to 
adore.  Then  he  went  away. 

"Truly,"  said  the  mother,  in  an  amused  aside  to  me,  as  with 
a  kind  of  motherly  pride  she  watched  him  walk  hastily  down 
between  those  chestnut  trees  known  of  old — "truly,  time  flies 
fast.  Things  begin  to  look  serious — eh,  father?" 

"Five  years  hence  we  shall  have  that  young  man  falling  in 
love  with  Muriel." 

But  John  and  I  looked  at  the  still,  soft  face,  half  a  child's 
and  half  an  angel's. 

"Hush!"  he  said,  as  if  Ursula's  fancy  were  profanity:  then 
eagerly  snatched  it  up  and  laughed,  confessing  how  angry  he 
should  be  if  anybody  dared  to  "fall  in  love"  with  Muriel. 

Next  day  was  the  one  fixed  for  the  trial  of  the  new  steam 
engine;  which  trial  being  successful,  we  were  to  start  at  once 
in  a  post-chaise  for  Longfield;  for  the  mother  longed  to  be  at 
home,  and  so  did  we  all. 

«  There  was  rather  a  dolorous  good-bye  and  much  lamenting 
from  good  M.rs.  Tod,  who,  her  own  bairns  grown  up,  thought 
there  were  no  children  worthy  to  compare  with  our  children. 
And  truly,  as  the  three  boys  scampered  down  the  road — their 
few  regrets  soon  over,  eager  for  anything  new — three  finer 
lads  could  not  be  seen  in  the  whole  country. 

Mrs.  Halifax  looked  after  them  proudly — mother-like,  she 
gloried  in  her  sons;  while  John,  walking  slowly,  and  assuring 
20 


$06  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Mrs.  Tod  over  and  over  again  that  we  should  all  come  back 
next  summer,  went  down  the  steep  hill,  carrying,  hidden  un- 
der many  wraps  and  nestled  close  to  his  warm  shoulder,  his 
little  frail  winter-rose — his  only  daughter. 

In  front  of  the  mill  we  found  a  considerable  crowd;  for  the 
time  being  ripe,,  Mr.  Halifax  had  made  public  the  fact  that  he 
meant  to  work  his  looms  by  steam,  the  only  way  in  which  he 
could  carry  on  the  mill  at  all.  The  announcement  had  been 
received  with  great  surprise  and  remarkable  quietness,  both  by 
his  own  work  people  and  all  along  the  Enderley  valley.  Still 
there  was  the  usual  amount  of  contemptuous  scepticism,  in- 
cident on  any  new  experiment.  Men  were  peering  about  the 
locked  door  of  the  engine  room  with  a  surly  curiosity;  and  one 
village  oracle,  to  prove  how  impossible  it  was  that  such  a  thing 
as  steam  could  work  anything,  had  taken  the  trouble  to  light 
a  fire  in  the  yard  and  set  thereon  his  wife's  best  tea-kettle, 
which,  as  she  snatched  angrily  away,  scalded  him  slightly,  and 
caused  him  to  limp  away  swearing,  a  painful  illustration  of  the 
adage,  that  "a  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing." 

"Make  way,  my  good  people,"  said  Mr.  Halifax;  and  he 
crossed  the  mill-yard,  his  wife  on  his  arm,  followed  by  an  in- 
voluntary murmur  of  respect. 

"He  be  a  fine  fellow,  the  master;  he  sticks  at  nothing,"  was 
the  comment  heard  made  upon  him  by  one  of  his  people,  and 
probably  it  expressed  the  feeling  of  the  rest.  There  are  few 
things  which  give  a  man  more  power  over  his  fellows  than  the 
thoroughly  English  quality  of  daring. 

Perhaps  this  was  the  secret  why  John  had  as  yet  passed 
safely  through  the  crisis  which  had  been  the  destruction  of  so 
many  mill-owners,  namely,  the  introduction  of  a  power  which 
the  mill  people  were  convinced  would  ruin  hand  labor.  Or 
else  the  folk  in  our  valley,  out  of  their  very  primitiveness, 
had  more  faith  in  the  master,  for  certainly,  as  John  passed 
through  the  small  crowd,  there  was  only  one  present  who 
raised  the  old  fatal  cry  of  "Down  with  machinery." 

"Who  said  that?" 

At  the  master's  voice — at  the  flash  of  the  master's  eye — the 
little  knot  of  work-people  drew  back,  and  the  malcontent, 
whoever  he  was,  shrunk  into  silence. 

Mr.  Halifax  walked  past  them,  entered  his  mill,  and  un- 
locked the  door  of  the  room  which  he  had  turned  into  an  en- 
gine room,  and  where,  along  with  the  two  men  he  had 
brought  from  Manchester,  he  had  been  busy  almost  night  and 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  307 

day,  for  this  week  past,  in  setting  up  his  machinery.  They 
worked — as  the  Manchester  fellows  said  they  had  often  been 
obliged  to  work — under  lock  and  key. 

"Your  folk  be  queer  'uns,  Mr.  Halifax.  They  say  there's 
six  devils  inside  on  her,  theer." 

And  the  man  pointed  to  the  great  boiler  which  had  been 
built  up  in  an  out-house  adjoining. 

"Six  devils,  say  they?  Well,  I'll  be  Maister  Michael  Scot, 
eh,  Phineas?  and  make  my  devils  work  hard/' 

He  laughed,  but  he  was  much  excited.  He  went  over,  piece 
by  piece,  the  complicated  but  delicate  machinery;  rubbed  here 
and  there  at  the  brass-work,  which  shone  as  bright  as  a  mir- 
ror; then  stepped  back  and  eyed  it  with  pride,  almost  with  af- 
fection. 

"Isn't  it  a  pretty  thing?  If  only  I  have  it  set  up  right — if 
it  will  but  work!"" 

His  hands  shook,  his  cheeks  were  burning — little  Edwin 
came  peering  about  at  his  knee;  but  he  pushed  the  child  has- 
tily away;  then  he  found  some  slight  fault  with  the  machinery, 
and  while  the  workmen  rectified  it  stood  watching  them 
breathless  with  anxiety.  His  wife  came  to  his  side. 

"Don't  speak  to  me—don't  Ursula.     If  it  fails  I  am  ruined." 

"John!"  She  just  whispered  his  name,  and  the  soft,  firm 
hold  of  her  fingers  closed  round  his,  strengthening,  cheering. 
Her  husband  faintly  smiled. 

"Here!"  He  unlocked  the  door  and  called  to  the  people 
outside.  "Come  in,  two  of  you  fellows,  and  see  how  my  dev- 
ils work.  Now,  then!  Boys,  keep  out  of  the  way;  my  little 
girl" — his  voice  softened — "my  pet  will  not  be  frightened? 
Now,  my  men — ready?" 

He  opened  the  valve. 

With  a  strange  noise,  that  made  the  two  Enderley  men 
spring  back  as  if  the  six  devils  were  really  let  loose  upon  them, 
the  steam  came  rushing  into  the  cylinder.  There  was  a  slight 
motion  of  the  piston-rod. 

"All's  right!  it  will  work!" 

No,  it  stopped. 

John  drew  a  deep  breath. 

It  went  on  again,  beginning  to  move  slowly  up  and  down 
like  the  strong  right  arm  of  some  automaton  giant.  Greater 
and  lesser  cog-wheels  caught  up  the  motive  power,  revolving 
slowly  and  majestically,  and  with  steady,  regular  rotation,  or 
whirling  round  so  fast  you  could  hardly  see  that  they  stirred 


308  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

at  all.  Of  a  sudden  a  soul  had  been  put  into  that  wonderful 
creature  of  man's  making,  that  inert  mass  of  wood  and  metal, 
mysteriously  combined.  The  monster  was  alive. 

Speechless  John  stood  watching  it.  Their  trial  over,  his 
energies  collapsed;  he  sat  down  by  his  wife's  side,  and  taking 
Muriel  on  his  knee,  bent  his  head  over  hers. 

"Is  all  right,  father?"  the  child  whispered. 

"All  quite  right,  my  own." 

"You  said  you  could  do  it,  and  you  have  done  it,"  cried  his 
wife,  her  eyes  glowing  with  triumph,  her  head  erect  and 
proud. 

John  dropped  liis  lower,  lower  still.  "Yes,"  he  murmured ; 
"yes,  thank  God." 

Then  he  opened  the  door,  and  let  all  the  people  in  to  see 
the  wondrous  sight. 

They  crowded  in  by  dozens,  staring  about  in  blank  won- 
der, gaping  curiosity,  ill-disguised  alarm.  John  took  pains 
to  explain  the  machinery,  stage  by  stage,  till  some  of  the  more 
intelligent  caught  up  the  principle,  and  made  merry  at  the 
notion  of  "devils."  But  they  all  looked  with  great  awe  at 
the  master,  as  if  he  were  something  more  than  man.  They 
listened  open-mouthed  to  every  word  he  uttered,  cramming 
the  small  engine  room  till  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  breathe, 
but  keeping  at  a  respectful  distance  from  the  iron-armed 
monster,  that  went  working,  working  on,  as  if  ready  and  able 
to  work  on  to  everlasting. 

John  took  his  wife  and  children  out  into  the  open  air. 
Muriel,  who  had  stood  for  the  last  few  minutes  by  her  father's 
side,  listening  with  a  pleased  look  to  the  monotonous  regular 
sound,  like  the  breathing  of  the  demon,  was  unwilling  to  go. 

"I  am  very  glad  I  was  with  you  to-day;  very  glad,  father," 
she  kept  saying. 

He  said,  as  often — twice  as  often — that  next  summer,  when 
he  came  back  to  Enderley,  she  should  be  with  him  at  the 
mills  every  day,  and  all  day  over,  if  she  liked. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  hasten  as  quickly  and 
merrily  as  possible  to  our  well-beloved  Longfield. 

Waiting  for  the  post-chaise,  Mrs.  Halifax  and  the  boys  sat 
down  on  the  bridge  over  the  defunct  and  silenced  water-fall, 
on  the  muddy  steps  of  which,  where  the  stream  used  to  dash 
musically  over,  weeds  and  long  grasses,  mingled  with  the 
drooping  water-fern,  were  already  beginning  to  grow, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  309 

"It  looks  desolate,  but  we  need  not  mind  that  now,"  said 
Mrs.  Halifax. 

"No"  her  husband  answered.  "Steam-power  once  ob- 
tained, I  can  apply  it  in  any  way  I  choose.  My  people  will 
not  hinder;  they  trust  me — they  like  me." 

"And,  perhaps,  are  just  a  little  afraid  of  you.  No  matter, 
it  is  a  wholesome  fear.  I  should  not  like  to  have  married  a 
man  whom  nobody  was  afraid  of." 

John  smiled;  he  was  looking  at  the  horseman  riding  toward 
us  along  the  high  road.  "I  do  believe  that  is  Lord  Luxmore. 
I  wonder  whether  he  has  heard  of  my  steam  engine.  Love, 
will  you  go  back  into  the  mill  or  not?" 

"Certainly  not."  The  mother  seated  herself  on  the  bridge, 
her  boys  around  her;  John  avouched  with  an  air  like  the 
mother  of  the  Gracchi,  or  like  the  Highland  woman  who 
trained  one  son  after  another  to  fight  and  slay  their  enemy, 
their  father's  murderer. 

"Don't  jest,"  said  Ursula.  She  was  much  more  excited 
than  her  husband.  Two  angry  spots  burned  on  her  cheeks 
when  Lord  Luxmore  came  up,  and,  in  passing,  bowed. 

Mrs.  Halifax  returned  it,  haughtily  enough.  But  at  the 
moment  a  loud  cheer  broke  out  from  the  mill  hard  by,  and 
"Hurrah  for  the  master!"  "Hurrah  for  Mr.  Halifax!"  was  dis- 
tinctly heard.  The  mother  smiled  right  proudly. 

Lord  Luxmore  turned  to  his  tenant — they  might  have  been 
on  the  best  of  terms  imaginable,  from  his  bland  air. 

"What  is  that  rather  harsh  noise  I  hear,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"It  is  my  men  cheering  me." 

"Oh,  how  charming!  so  grateful  to  the  feelings!  And  why 
do  they  cheer  you,  may  I  ask?" 

John  briefly  told  him,  speaking  with  perfect  courtesy  as  he 
was  addressed. 

"And  this  steam-engine — I  have  heard  of  it  before — will 
greatly  advantage  your  mills?" 

"It  will,  my  Lord.  It  renders  me  quite  independent  of 
your  stream,  of  which  the  fountains  at  Luxmore  can  now 
have  the  full  monopoly." 

It  would  not  have  been  human  nature  if  a  spice  of  harm- 
less malice — even  triumph — had  not  sparkled  in  John's  eye 
as  he  said  this.  He  was  walking  by  the  horse's  side,  as  Lord 
Luxmore  had  politely  requested  him. 

They  went  a  little  way  up  the  hill  together,  out  of  sight 


310  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

of  Mrs.  Halifax,  who  was  busy  putting  the  two  younger  boys 
into  the  chaise. 

"I.  did  not  quite  understand.  Would  you  do  me  the  favor 
to  repeat  your  sentence?' 

"Merely,  my  lord,  that  your  cutting  off  of  the  water- 
course has  been  to  me  one  of  the  greatest  advantages  I  ever 
had  in  my  life;  for  which,  whether  meant  or  not,  allow  me  to 
thank  you." 

The  earl  looked  full  in  John's  face  without  answering; 
then  spurred  his  horse  violently.  The  animal  started  off  full 
speed. 

"The  children!    Good  God— the  children!" 

Guy  was  in  the  ditch-bank  gathering  flowers;  but  Muriel 
— for  the  first  time  in  our  lives  we  had  forgotten  Muriel. 

She  stood  in  the  horse's  path — the  helpless,  blind  child. 
The  next  instant  she  was  knocked  down. 

I  never  heard  a  curse  on  John  Halifax's  lips  but  once — 
that  once.  Lord  Luxmore  heard  it  too.  The  image  of  the 
frantic  father,  snatching  up  his  darling  from  under  the 
horse's  heels,  must  have  haunted  the  earl's  good  memory  for 
many  a  day. 

He  dismounted,  saying,  anxiously,  "I  hope  the  little  girl 
is  not  injured.  It  was  accident,  you  see — pure  accident." 

But  John  did  not  hear;  he  would  scarcely  have  heard 
heaven's  thunder.  He  knelt  with  the  child  in  his  arms  by 
a  little  runnel  in  the  ditch-bank.  When  the  water  touched 
her  she  opened  her  eyes  with  that  wide,  momentary  stare  so 
painful  to  behold. 

"My  little  darling!" 

Muriel  smiled  and  nestled  to  him.  "Indeed  I  am  not 
hurt,  dear  father." 

Lord  Luxmore,  standing  by,  seemed  much  relieved,  and 
again  pressed  his  apologies. 

No  answer. 

"Go  away!"  sobbed  out  Guy,  shaking  both  his  fists  in  the 
nobleman's  face.  "Go  away,  or  I'll  kill  you,  wicked  man! 
I  would  have  done  it,  if  you  had  killed  my  sister!" 

Lord  Luxmore  laughed  at  the  boy's  fury — threw  him  a 
guinea,  which  Guy  threw  back  at  him  with  all  his  might,  and 
rode  placidly  away. 

"Guy!  Guy!"  called  the  faint,  soft  voice  which  had  more 
power  over  him  than  any  other,  except  his  mother's.  "Guy 
must  not  be  angry.  Father,  don't  let  him  be  angry." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  311 

But  the  father  was  wholly  occupied  in  Muriel — looking  in 
her  face,  and  feeling  all  her  little  fragile  limbs,  to  make  sure 
that  in  no  way  she  was  injured. 

It  appeared  not;  though  the  escape  seemed  almost  mirac- 
ulous. John  recurred,  with  a  kind  of  trembling  tenacity, 
to  the  old  saying  in  our  house,  that  "nothing  ever  harmed 
Muriel." 

"Since  it  is  safe  over,  and  she  can  walk — you  are  sure  you 
can,  my  pet?  I  think  we  will  not  say  anything  about  this  to 
the  mother;  at  least,  not  till  we  reach  Longfield." 

But  it  was  too  late.  There  was  no  deceiving  the  mother. 
Every  change  in  every  face  struck  her  instantaneously.  The 
minute  we  rejoined  her,  she  said: 

"John,  something  has  happened  to  Muriel." 

Then  he  told  her;  making  as  light  of  the  accident  as  he 
could;  as,  indeed,  for  the  first  ten  minutes  we  all  believed, 
until  alarmed  by  the  extreme  pallor  and  silence  of  the  child. 

Mrs.  Halifax  sat  down  by  the  road-side,  bathed  Muriel's 
forehead  and  smoothed  her  hair;  but  still  the  little  curls 
lay  motionless  against  the  mothers  breast;  and  still  to  every 
question  she  only  answered  "that  she  was  not  hurt." 

All  this  while  the  post-chaise  was  waiting. 

"What  must  be  done!"  I  inquired  of  Ursula;  for  it  was  no 
use  asking  John  anything. 

"We  must  go  back  again  to  Enderley,"  she  said,  de- 
cidedly. 

So,  giving  Muriel  into  her  father's  arms,  she  led  the 
way,  and,  a  melancholy  procession,  we  again  ascended  the 
hill  to  Rose  Cottage  door. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Without  any  discussion,  our  plans  were  tacitly  changed; 
no  more  was  said  about  going  home  to  dear  Longfield.  Every 
one  felt,  though  no  one  trusted  it  to  words,  that  the  jour- 
ney was  impossible.  For  Muriel  lay,  day  after  day,  on  her 
little  bed  in  an  upper  chamber,  or  was  carried  softly  down 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  by  her  father,  never  complaining, 
but  never  attempting  to  move  or  talk.  When  we  asked  her 
if  she  felt  ill,  she  always  answered,  "Oh  no!  only  so  very 
tired."  Nothing  more. 


312  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"She  is  dull,  for  want  of  the  others  to  play  with  her.  The 
boys  should  not  run  out  and  leave  their  sister  alone,"  said 
John,  almost  sharply,  when  one  bright  morning  the  lads' 
merry  voices  came  down  from  the  Flat,  while  he  and  I  were 
sitting  by  MurielVsofa  in  the  still  parlor. 

"Father,  let  the  boys  play  without  me,  please.  Indeed  I  do 
not  mind.  I  had  rather  lie  quiet  here." 

"But  it  is  not  good  for  my  little  girl  always  to  be  quiet,  and 
it  grieves  father." 

"Does  it?"  She  roused  herself,  sat  upright,  and  began  to 
move  her  limbs,  but  wearily. 

"That  is  right,  my  darling.  Now  let  me  see  how  well 
you  can  walk." 

Muriel  slipped  to  her  feet  and  tried  to  cross  the  room, 
catching  at  the  table  and  chairs — now,  alas!  not  only  for 
guidance  but  actual  support.  At  last  she  began  to  stagger, 
and  said,  half  crying: 

"I  can't  walk,  I  am  so  tired!  Oh,  do  take  me  in  your 
arms,  dear  father!" 

Her  father  took  her,  looked  long  in  her  sightless  face,  then 
buried  his  against  her  shoulder,  saying  nothing.  But  I 
think  in  that  moment  he  too  saw,  glittering  and  bare,  the 
long-veiled  Hand  which,  for  this  year  past,  I  had  seen 
stretched  out  of  the  immutable  heavens,  claiming  that  which 
was  Its  own.  Ever  after,  there  was  discernible  in  John's 
countenance  a  something  which  all  the  cares  of  his  anxious  yet 
happy  life  had  never  written  there — an  ineffaceable  record, 
burned  in  with  fire. 

He  held  her  in  his  arms  all  day.  He  invented  all  sorts  of 
tales  and  little  amusements  for  her;  and  when  she  was  tired 
of  these,  he  let  her  lie  in  his  bosom  and  sleep.  After  her 
bedtime  he  asked  me  to  go  out  with  him  on  the  Flat. 

It  was  a  misty  night.  The  very  cows  and  asses  stood  up 
large  and  spectral  as  shadows.  There  was  not  a  single  star 
to  be  seen. 

We  took  our  walk  along  the  terrace  and  came  back  again 
without  exchanging  a  single  word.  Then  John  said,  hastily: 

"I  am  glad  her  mother  was  so  busy  to-day — too  busy  to 
notice." 

"Yes,"  I  answered;  unconnected  as  his  words  were. 

"Do  you  understand  me,  Phineas?  Her  mother  must  not 
on  any  account  be  led  to  imagine,  or  to  fear  anything.  You 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  313 

must  not  look  as  you  looked  this  morning.  You  must  not, 
Phineas." 

He  spoke  almost  angrily.  I  answered  in  a  few  quieting 
words.  AVe  were  silent,  until  over  the  common  we  caught 
sight  of  the  light  in  Muriel's  window.  Then  I  felt  rather 
than  heard  the  father's  groan. 

"0  God!  my  only  daughter — my  dearest  child!" 

Yes,  she  was  the  dearest.  I  knew  it.  Strange  mystery, 
that  He  should  so  often  take,  by  death  or  otherwise,  the 
dearest — always  the  dearest.  Strange,  that  He  should  hear 
us  cry — us  writhing  in  the  dust,  "0  Father,  anything,  any- 
thing but  this!"  But  our  Father  answers  not;  and  meanwhile 
the  desire  of  our  eyes,  be  it  a  life,  a  love,  or  a  blessing — slowly, 
slowly  goes — is  gone.  And  yet  we  have  to  believe  in  our 
Father.  Perhaps  of  all  trials  to  human  faith  this  is  the 
sorest.  Thanks  be  to  God  if  He  puts  into  our  hearts  such 
love  toward  Him,  that  even  while  He  slays  us  we  can  trust 
Him  still. 

This  father — this  broken-hearted  earthly  father — could. 

When  we  sat  at  the  supper-table,  Ursula,  John,  and  I,  the 
children  being  all  in  bed,  no  one  could  have  told  that  there 
was  any  shadow  over  us,  more  than  the  sadly-familiar  pain  of 
the  darling  of  the  house  being  "not  so  strong  as  she  used  to 
be." 

"But  I  think  she  will  be,  John.  "We  shall  have  her  quite 
about  again,  before " 

The  mother  stopped,  slightly  smiling.  It  was,  indeed,  an 
especial  mercy  of  Heaven  which  put  that  unaccountable  blind- 
ness before  her  eyes,  and  gave  her  other  duties  and  other  cares 
to  intercept  the  thought  .of  Muriel.  While,  from  morning 
till  night  it  was  the  incessant  secret  care  of  her  husband, 
myself,  and  good  Mrs.  Tod,  to  keep  her  out  of  her  little 
daughter's  sight,  and  prevent  her  mind  from  catching  the 
danger  of  one  single  fear. 

Thus,  within  a  week  or  two,  the  mother  lay  down  cheer- 
fully upon  her  couch  of  pain,  and  gave  another  child  to  the 
household — a  little  sister  to  Muriel. 

Muriel  was  the  first  to  whom  the  news  was  told.  Her 
father  told  it.  His  natural  joy  and  thankfulness  seemed  for 
the  moment  to  efface  every  other  thought. 

"She  is  come,  darling!  little  Maud  is  come.  I  am  very 
rich — for  I  have  two  daughters  now." 

"Muriel  is  glad,  father."    But  she  showed  her  gladness  in 


314  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

a  strangely  quiet,  meditative  way,  unlike  a  child — unlike 
even  her  own  self. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  my  pet?" 

'•'That — though  father  has  another  daughter,  I  hope  he 
will  remember  the  first  one  sometimes." 

''She  is  jealous!"  cried  John,  in  the  curious  delight  with 
which  he  always  detected  in  her  any  weakness,  any  fault, 
\vhirh  brought  her  down  to  the  safe  level  of  humanity.  "Sec, 
Uncle  Phineas,  our  Muriel  is  actually  jealous." 

But  Muriel  only  smiled. 

That  smile,  so  serene,  so  apart  from  every  feeling  or  pas- 
sion appertaining  to  us  who  are  "of  the  earth,  earthy,"  smote 
the  father  to  the  heart's  core. 

He  sat  down  by  her,  and  she  crept  into  his  arms. 

"What  day  is  it,  father?" 

"The  first  of  December." 

"I  am  glad.  Little  Maud's  birthday  will  be  in  the  same 
month  as  mine." 

"But  you  came  in  the  snow,  Muriel,  and  now  it  is  warm 
and  mild." 

"There  will  be  snow  on  my  birthday,  though.  There 
always  is.  The  snow  is  fond  of  me,  father.  It  would  like  me 
to  lie  down  and  be  all  covered  over,  so  that  you  could  not 
find  me  anywhere." 

I  heard  John  try  to  echo  her  weak,  soft  laugh. 

"This  month  it  will  be  eleven  years  since  I  was  born,  will 
it  not,  father?" 

"Yes,  my  darling." 

CfWhat  a  long  time!  Then,  when  my  little  sister  is  as 
old  as  I  am,  I  shall  be — that  is,  I  should  have  been — a 
woman  grown.  Fancy  me  twenty  years  old,  as  tall  as  mother, 
wearing  a  gown  like  her,  talking  and  ordering,  and  busy 
about  the  house.  How  funny!"  And  she  laughed  again. 
"Oh,  no,  father,  I  couldn't  do  it.  I  had  better  remain  always 
your  little  Muriel,  weak  and  small,  who  liked  to  creep  close 
to  you,  and  go  to  sleep  in  this  way." 

She  ceased  talking — very  soon  she  was  sound  asleep.  But 
— the  father! 

Muriel  faded,  though  slowly.  Sometimes  she  was  so  well 
for  an  hour  or  two  that  the  Hand  seemed  drawn  back  into 
the  clouds,  till  of  a  sudden  we  discerned  it  there. 

One  Sunday — it  was  ten  davs  or  so  after  Maud's  birth,  and 
the  weather  had  been  so  bitterly  cold  that  the  mother  had  her- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  315 

self  forbidden  our  bringing  Muriel  to  the  other  side  of  the 
house  where  she  and  the  baby  lay — Mrs.  Tod  was  laying  the 
dinner  and  John  stood  at  the  window  playing  with  his  three 
boys. 

He  turned  abruptly  and  saw  all  the  chairs  placed  round  the 
table — all  save  one. 

"Where  is  Muriel's  chair,  Mrs.  Tod?" 

"Sir,  she  says  she  feels  so  tired-like  she'd  rather  not  come 
down  to-day,"  answered  Mrs.  Tod,  hesitatingly. 

"Not  come  down?" 

"Maybe  better  not,  Mr.  Halifax.  Look  out  at  the  snow. 
It'll  be  warmer  for  the  dear  child  to-morrow." 

"You  are  right.  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  the  snow.  She 
shall  come  down  to-morrow." 

I  caught  Mrs.  Tod's  eyes;  they  were  running  over.  She  was 
too  wise  to  speak  of  it — but  she  knew  the  truth  as  well  as 
we. 

This  Sunday — I  remember  it  well — was  the  first  day  we 
sat  down  to  dinner  with  the  one  place  vacant. 

For  a  few  days  longer,  her  father,  every  evening  when  he 
came  in  from  the  mills,  persisted  in  carrying  her  down,  as 
he  had  said,  holding  her  on  his  knee  during  tea,  then  amus- 
ing her  and  letting  the  boys  amuse  her  for  half  an  hour  or 
so  before  bedtime.  But  at  the  week's  end  even  this  ceased. 

"When  Mrs.  Halifax,  quite  convalescent,  was  brought  tri- 
umphantly to  her  old  place  at  our  happy  Sunday  dinner- 
table,  and  all  the  boys  came  pressing  about  her,  vying  which 
should  get  most  kisses  from  little  sister  Maud,  she  looked 
round,  surprised  amid  her  smiling,  and  asked: 

"Where  is  Muriel?" 

"She  seems  to  feel  this  bitter  weather  a  good  deal,"  John 
said.  "And  I  thought  it  better  she  should  not  come  down  to 
dinner." 

"No,"  added  Guy,  wondering  and  dolefully,  "sister  has 
not  been  down  to  dinner  with  us  for  a  great  many  days." 

The  mother  started;  looked  first  at  her  husband,  and  then 
at  me. 

"Why  did  nobody  tell  me  this?" 

"Love,  there  was  nothing  new  to  be  told." 

'•'Has  the  child  had  any  illness  that  I  do  not  know  of?" 

"No." 

"Has  Dr.  Jessop  seen  her?" 

"Several  times." 


316  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Mother,"  said  Guy,  eager  to  comfort,  for,  naughty  as  he 
was  sometimes,  he  was  the  most  tender-hearted  of  all  the 
boys,  especially  to  Muriel  and  to  his  mother,  "sister  isn't  ill 
a  bit,  I  know.  She  was  laughing  and  talking  with  me  just 
now — saying  she  knows  she  could  carry  baby  a  great  deal 
better  than  I  could.  She  is  as  merry  as  ever  she  can  be." 

The  mother  kissed  him  in  her  quick,  eager  way — the  sole 
indication  of  that  maternal  love  which  was  in  her  almost  a 
passion.  She  looked  more  satisfied. 

Nevertheless,  when  Mrs.  Tod  came  into  the  parlor,  she 
rose  and  put  little  Maud  into  her  arms. 

"Take  baby,  please,  while  I  go  up  to  see  Muriel." 

"Don't — now  don't,  please,  Mrs.  Halifax,"  cried  earnestly 
the  good  woman. 

Ursula  turned  very  pale.  "They  ought  to  have  told  me," 
she  muttered;  "John,  you  must  let  me  go  and  see  my  child." 

"Presently,  presently.  Guy,  run  up  and  play  with  Muriel. 
Phineas,  take  the  others  with  you.  You  shall  go  upstairs 
in  one  minute,  my  darling  wife!" 

He  turned  us  all  out  of  the  room  and  shut  the  door.  How 
he  told  her  that  which  it  was  necessary  she  should  know — 
that  which  Dr.  Jessop  himself  had  told  us  this  very  morning; 
how  the  father  and  mother  bore  this  first  open  revelation 
of  their  unutterable  grief,  forever  remained  unknown. 

I  was  sitting  by  Muriel's  bed  when  they  came  upstairs. 
The  darling  lay  listening  to  her  brother,  who  was  squatted 
on  her  pillow,  making  all  sorts  of  funny  talk.  There  was  a 
smile  on  her  face;  she  looked  quite  rosy;  I  hoped  Ursula 
might  not  notice,  just  for  the  time  being,  the  great  change 
the  last  few  weeks  had  made. 

But  she  did;  who  could  ever  blindfold  a  mother?  For 
a  moment  I  saw  her  recoil,  then  turn  to  her  husband  with 
a  dumb,  piteous,  desperate  look,  as  though  to  say,  "Help  me; 
my  sorrow  is  more  than  I  can  bear!" 

But  Muriel,  hearing  the  step,  cried  with  a  joyful  cry, 
"Mother!  it's  my  mother!" 

The  mother  folded  her  to  her  breast. 

Muriel  shed  a  tear  or  two  there,  in  a  satisfied,  peaceful 
way;  the  mother  did  not  weep  at  all.  Her  self-command,  so 
far  as  speech  went,  was  miraculous.  For  her  look — but  then 
she  knew  the  child  was  blind. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "my  pet  will  be  good  and  not  cry?  It 
would  do  her  harm.  We  must  be  very  happy  to-day." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  317 

"Oh  yes."  Then  in  a  fond  whisper,  "Please,  I  do  so  want 
to  see  little  Maud." 

"Who?"  with  an  absent  gaze. 

"My  little  sister,  Maud — Maud  that  is  to  take  my  place 
and  be  everybody's  darling  now." 

"Hush,  Muriel,"  said  the  father,  hoarsely. 

A  strangely  soft  smile  broke  over  her  face — and  she  was 
silent. 

The  new  baby  was  carried  upstairs  proudly  by  Mrs.  Tod, 
all  the  boys  following.  Quite  a  levee  was  held  round  the  bed, 
where,  laid  close  beside  her,  her  weak  hands  being  guided 
over  the  tiny  face  and  form,  Muriel  first  "saw"  her  little 
sister.  She  was  greatly  pleased.  With  a  grave  elder-sister- 
ly air  she  felt  all  over  the  baby-limbs,  and  when  Maud  set  up 
an  indignant  cry,  began  hushing  her  with  so  quaint  an  imi- 
tation of  motherliness  that  we  were  all  amused. 

"You'll  be  a  capital  nurse  in  a  month  or  two,  my  pretty!" 
said  Mrs.  Tod. 

Muriel  only  smiled.  "How  fat  she  is — and  look  how  fast 
her  fingers  take  hold!  And  her  head  is  so  round  and  her 
hair  feels  so  soft — as  soft  as  my  doves'  necks  at  Longfield. 
What  color  is  it — like  mine?" 

It  was — nearly  the  same  shade.  Maud  bore,  the  mother 
declared,  the  strongest  likeness  to  Muriel. 

"I  am  so  glad.     But  these" — touching  her  eyes  anxious- 

iy. 

''No,  my  darling.  Not  like  you  there,"  was  the  low  an- 
swer. 

"I  am  very  glad.  Please,  little  Maud,  don't  cry — it's  only 
sister  touching  you.  How  wide  open  your  eyes  feel!  I  won- 
der"— with  a  thoughtful  pause — "I  wonder  if  you  can  see 
me.  Little  Maud,  I  should  like  you  to  see  sister." 

"She  does  see,  of  course;  how  she  stares!"  cried  Guy.  And 
then  Edwin  began  to  argue  to  the  contrary,  protesting  that 
as  kittens  and  puppies  could  not  see  at  first,  he  believed 
little  babies  did  not:  which  produced  a  warm  altercation 
among  the  children  gathered^  round  the  bed,  while  Muriel 
lay  back  quietly  on  her  pillow,  with  her  little  sister  fondly 
hugged  to  her  breast. 

The  father  and  mother  looked  on.  It  was  such  a  picture 
— these  five  darlings,  these  children  which  God  had  given 
thorn — a  group  perfect  and  complete  in  itself,  like  a  root  of 


318  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

daisies,  or  a  branch  of  ripening  fruit,  which  not  one  could 
be  added  to,  or  taken  from. 

No.  I  was  sure,  from  the  parents'  smile,  that  one  Mercy 
had  blinded  their  eyes,  so  that  they  saw  nothing  beyond  the 
present  moment. 

The  children  were  wildly  happy.  All  the  afternoon  they 
kept  up  their  innocent  little  games  by  Muriel's  bedside;  she 
sometimes  sharing,  sometimes  listening  apart.  Only  once 
or  twice  came  that  wistful,  absent  look,  as  if  she  were  list- 
ening partly  to  us,  and  partly  to  those  we  heard  not;  as  if 
through  the  wide-open  orbs  the  soul  were  straining  at  sights 
wonderful  and  new — sights  into  which  her  eyes  were  the 
clear-seeing,  and  ours  the  blank  and  blind. 

It  seems  strange  now,  to  remember  that  Sunday  after- 
noon, and  how  merry  we  all  were;  how  we  drank  tea  in  the 
queer  bedroom  at  the  top  of  the  house;  and  now  afterward 
Muriel  went  to  sleep  in  the  twilight,  with  baby  Maud  in  her 
arms.  Mrs.  Halifax  sat  beside  the  little  bed,  a  sudden  blazing 
up  of  the  fire  showing  the  intentness  of  her  watch  over  these 
two,  her  eldest  and  youngest,  fast  asleep;  their  breathing  so 
soft,  one  hardly  knew  which  was  frailest,  the  life  slowly  fad- 
ing or  the  life  but  just  begun.  Their  breaths  seemed  to  mix 
and  mingle,  and  the  two  faces,  lying  close  together,  to  grow 
into  a  strange  likeness  each  to  each.  At  least  we  all  fancied 
so. 

Meantime  John  kept  the  boys  as  still  as  mice,  in  the  broad 
window-seat,  looking  across  the  white  snowy  sheet,  with  black 
bushes  peering  out  here  and  there,  to  the  feathery  beech- 
wood,  over  the  tops  of  which  the  new  moon  was  going  down. 
Such  a  little  young  moon;  and  how  peacefully — nay,  smil- 
ingly— she  set  among  the  snows! 

The  children  watched  her  till  the  very  last  minute,  when 
Guy  startled  the  deep  quiet  of  the  room  by  exclaiming— 
"There— she's  gone!" 

"Hush!" 

"N"o,  mother,  I  am  awake,"  said  Muriel.  "Who  is  gone, 
Guy?" 

"The  moon — such  a  pretty  little  moon." 

"Ah,  Maud  will  see  the  moon  some  day."  She  dropped  her 
cheek  down  again  beside  the  baby  sister,  and  was  silent  once 
more. 

This  is  the  only  incident  I  remember  of  that  peaceful, 
heavenly  hour. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  319 

Maud  broke  upon  its  quietude  by  her  waking  and  wailing; 
and  Muriel  very  unwillingly  let  the  little  sister  go. 

"I  wish  she  might  stay  with  me — just  this  one  night,  and 
to-morrow  is  my  birthday.  Please,  mother,  may  she  stay?" 

"We  will  both  stay,  my  darling.  I  shall  not  leave  you 
again." 

"I  am  so  glad/'  and  once  more  she  turned  round,  as  if  to  go 
to  sleep. 

"Are  you  tired,  my  pet?"  said  John,  looking  intently  at 
her. 

"No,  father." 

"Shall  I  take  your  brothers  down-stairs?" 

"Not  yet,  dear  father." 

"What  would  you  like,  then?" 

"Only  to  lie  here,  this  Sunday  evening,  among  you  all." 

He  asked  her  if  she  would  like  him  to  read  aloud — as  h,e 
generally  did  on  Sunday  evenings. 

"Yes,  please;  and  Guy  will  come  and  sit  quiet  on  the  bed 
beside  me  and  listen.  That  will  be  pleasant.  Guy  was 
always  very  good  to  his  sister — always." 

"I  don't  know  that,"  said  Guy,  in  a  conscience-stricken 
tone.  "But  I  mean  to  be  when  I  grow  a  big  man — that  I 
do." 

No  one  answered.  John  opened  the  large  Book — the  Book 
he  had  taught  all  his  children  to  long  for  and  to  love,  and 
read  out  of  it  their  favorite  history  of  Joseph  and  his  brethren. 
The  mother  sat  by  him  at  the  fireside,  rocking  Maud  softly 
on  her  knees.  Edwin  and  Walter  settled  themselves  on  the 
hearth-rug,  with  great  eyes  intently  fixed  on  their  father. 
From  behind  him  the  candle-light  fell  softly  down  on  the 
motionless  figure  in  the  bed,  whose  hand  he  held,  and  whose 
face  he  every  now  and  then  turned  to  look  at — then,  satisfied, 
continued  to  read. 

In  the  reading,  his  voice  had  a  fatherly,  flowing  calm — 
as  Jacob's  might  have  had,  when  "the  children  were  tender,1' 
and  he  gathered  them  all  round  him  under  the  palm-trees 
of  Succoth — years  before  he  cried  unto  the  Lord  that  bitter 
cry  (which  John  hurried  over  as  he  read),  "If  I  am  bereaved 
of  my  children,  I  am  bereaved." 

For  an  hour  nearly,  we  all  sat  thus — with  the  wind  com- 
ing up  the  valley,  howling  in  the  beech-wood,  and  shaking 
the  casement  as  it  passed  outside.  Within,  the  only  sound 
was  the  father's  voice.  This  ceased  at  last:  he  shut  the  Bible, 


320  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

and  put  it  aside.  The  group — that  last  perfect  house- 
hold picture — was  broken  up.  It  melted  away  into  things 
of  the  past,  and  became  only  a  picture  for  evermore. 

"Now,  boys,  it  is  full  time  to  say  good-night.  There,  go 
and  kiss  your  sister." 

"Which?"  said  Edwin,  in  his  funny  way.  "We've  got  two 
now;  and  I  don't  know  which  is  the  biggest  baby." 

"I'll  thrash  you  if  you  say  that  again,"  said  Guy.  "Which, 
indeed?  Maud  is  but  the  baby.  Muriel  will  be  always 
'sister.' " 

"Sister"  faintly  laughed,  as  she  answered  his  fond  kiss. 
Guy  was  often  thought  to  be  her  favorite  brother. 

"Now,  off  with  you,  boys;  and  go  down-stairs  quietly — 
mind,  I  say  quietly." 

They  obeyed — that  is,  as  literally  as  boy-nature  can  obey 
such  an  admonition.  But  an  hour  after  I  heard  Guy  and 
Edwin  arguing  vociferously  in  the  dark  on  the  respective 
merits  and  future  treatment  of  their  two  sisters,  Muriel  and 
Maud. 

John  and  I  sat  up  late  together  that  night.  He  could  not 
rest — even  though  he  told  me  he  had  left  the  mother  and  her 
two  daughters  as  cosy  as  a  nest  of  wood-pigeons.  We  listened 
to  the  wild  night,  till  it  had  almost  howled  itself  away;  then 
our  fire  went  out,  and  we  came  and  sat  over  the  last  fagot  in 
Mrs.  Tod's  kitchen — the  only  Debatable  Land.  We  began 
talking  of  the  long-ago  time,  and  not  of  this  time  at  all. 
The  vivid  present — never  out  of  either  mind  for  an  instant — 
we  in  our  conversation  did  not  touch  upon  by  at  least  ten 
years.  Nor  did  we  give  expression  to  a  thought  which  strongly 
oppressed  me,  and  I  once  or  twice  fancied  I  could  detect  in 
John  likewise — how  very  like  this  night  seemed  to  the  night 
when  Mr.  March  died;  the  same  silentness  in  the  house — the 
same  windy  whirl  without — the  same  blaze  of  the  wood-fire  on 
the  same  kitchen  ceiling. 

More  than  once  I  could  almost  have  deluded  myself  that  I 
heard  the  faint  moans  and  footsteps  overhead — that  the 
staircase  door  would  open,  and  we  should  see  there  Miss 
March,  in  her  white  gown,  and  her  pale,  steadfast  look. 

"I  think  the  mother  seemed  very  well  and  calm  to-night," 
I  said,  hesitatingly,  as  we  were  retiring. 

"She  is.    God  help  her— and  us  all!" 

"He  will." 

This  was  all  we  said. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  321 

He  went  upstairs  the  last  thing,  and  br'ought  down  word 
that  mother  and  children  were  all  sound  asleep. 

"I  think  I  may  leave  them  until  daylight  to-morrow.  And 
now,  Uncle  Phineas,  go  you  to  bed,  for  you  look  as  tired  as 
tired  can  be." 

I  went  to  bed;  but  all  night  long  I  had  disturbed  dreams, 
in  which  I  pictured  over  and  over  again,  first  the  night 
when  Mr.  March  died,  then  the  night  at  Longfield,  when 
the  little  white  ghost  had  crossed  by  my  bed's  foot  into  the 
room  where  Mary  Baines'  dead  boy  lay.  And  continually, 
toward  morning,  I  fancied  I  heard  through  my  window, 
which  faced  the  church,  the  faint,  distant  sound  of  the  organ, 
as  when  Muriel  used  to  play  it. 

Long  before  it  was  light  I  rose.  As  I  passed  the  boys' 
room,  Guy  called  out  to  me: 

"Halloo!  Uncle  Phineas,  is  it  a  fine  morning? — for  I  want 
to  go  down  into  the  wood  and  get  a  lot  of  beech-nuts  and 
fir-cones  for  sister.  It's  her  birthday  to-day,  you  know." 

It  was,  for  her.  But  for  us Oh,  Muriel,  our  darling, 

darling  child! 

Let  me  hasten  over  the  story  of  that  morning,  for  my  old 
heart  quails  before  it  still. 

John  went  early  to  the  room  upstairs.  It  was  very  still. 
Ursula  lay  calmly  asleep,  with  baby  Maud  in  her  bosom;  on 
her  other  side,  with  eyes  wide  open  to  the  daylight,  lay — that 
which  for  more  than  ten  years  we  had  been  used  to  call 
"blind  Muriel."  She  saw  now! 

The  same  day,  at  evening,  we  three  were  sitting  in  the 
parlor;  we  elders  only — it  was  past  the  children's  bed- 
time. Grief  had  spent  itself  dry;  we  were  all  very  quiet. 
Even  LTrsula,  when  she  came  in  from  fetching  the  boys' 
candle,  as  had  always  been  her  custom,  and  though  after- 
ward I  thought  I  had  heard  her  going  upstairs,  likewise 
from  habit — where  there  was  no  need  to  bid  any  mother's 
good-night  now — even  Ursula  sat  in  the  rocking-chair,  nurs- 
ing Maud,  and  trying  to  still  her  crying  with  a  little  foolish 
baby-tune  that  had  descended  as  a  family  lullaby  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  whole  five — how  sad  it  sounded! 

John,  who  sat  at  the  table,  shading  the  light  from  his 
eyes,  an  open  book  lying  before  him,  of  which  he  never 
turned  one  page,  looked  up  at  her. 

"Love,  you  must  not  tire  yourself.    Give  me  the  child!" 
21 


322  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"No,  no!  Let. me  keep  my  baby — she  comforts  me  so!" 
And  the  mother  burst  into  uncontrollable  weeping. 

John  shut  his  book  and  came  to  her.  He  supported  her 
on  his  bosom,  saying  a  soothing  word  or  two  at  intervals, 
or,  when  the  paroxysm  of  her  anguish  was  beyond  all  bounds, 
supporting  her  silently  till  it  had  gone  by;  never  once  let- 
ting her  feel  that,  bitter  as  her  sorrow  was,  his  was  heavier 
than  hers. 

Thus,  during  the  whole  of  the  day,  had  he  been  the  stay  and 
consolation  of  the  household.  For  himself — the  father's 
grief  was  altogether  dumb. 

At  last  Mrs.  Halifax  became  more  composed.  She  sat  be- 
side her  husband,  her  hand  in  his,  neither,  speaking,  but  gaz- 
ing, as  it  were,  into  the  face  of  this  great  sorrow  and  from 
thence  up  to  the  face  of  God.  They  felt  that  He  could 
help  them  to  bear  it;  ay,  or  anything  else  that  it  was  His  will 
to  send,  if  they  might  thus  bear  it  together. 

We  all  three  sat  thus,  and  there  had  not  been  a  sound  in 
the  parlor  for  ever  so  long,  when  Mrs.  Tod  opened  the  door 
and  beckoned  to  me. 

"He  will  come  in — he's  crazy-like,  poor  fellow!  He  has 
only  just  heard " 

She  broke  off  with  a  sob.  Lord  Ravenel  pushed  her  aside 
and  stood  at  the  door.  We  had  not  seen  him  since  the  day  of 
that  innocent  jest  about  his  "falling  in  love"  with  Muriel. 
Seeing  us  all  so  quiet,  and  the  parlor  looking  as  it  always  did 
when  he  used  to  come  of  evenings,  the  young  man  drew  back 
amazed. 

"It  is  not  true!  No,  it  could  not  be  true!"  he  muttered. 

"It  is  true/'  said  the  father.    "Come  in." 

The  mother  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "Yes,  come  in. 
You  were  very  fond  of " 

Ah,  that  name — now  nothing  but  a  name!  For  a  little 
while  we  all  wept  sore. 

Then  we  told  him — it  was  Ursula  who  did  it  chiefly — all 
particulars  about  our  darling.  She  told  him.  but  calmly, 
as  became  one  on  whom  had  fallen  the  utmost  sorrow,  and 
crowning  consecration  of  motherhood — that  of  yielding  up 
her  child,  a  portion  of  her  own  being,  to  the  corruption  of  the 
grave — of  resigning  the  life  which  out  of  her  own  life  had 
been  created  unto  the  Creator  of  all. 

Surely,  distant  and  peculiar  from  every  other  grief,  every 
other  renunciation,  must  be  that  of  a  woman  who  is  thus 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  328 

chosen  to  give  her  very  flesh  and  blood,  the  fruit  of  her  own 
womb,  unto  the  Lord! 

This  dignity,  this  sanctity,  seemed  gradually  to  fall  upon 
the  mourning  mother,  as  she  talked  about  her  lost  one;  re- 
peating often,  "I  tell  you  this,  because  you  were  so  fond  of 
Muriel." 

He  listened  silently.  At  length  he  said,  "I  want  to  see 
Muriel." 

The  mother  lit  a  candle,  and  he  followed  her  upstairs. 

Just  the  same  homely  room,  half -bedchamber,  half -nursery, 
the  same  little  curtainless  bed  where,  for  a  week  past,  we  had 
been  accustomed  to  see  the  wasted  figure  and  small  pale  face 
lying,  in  smiling  quietude,  all  day  long. 

It  lay  there  still.  In  it,  and  in  the  room,  was  hardly  any 
change.  One  of  Walter's  playthings  was  in  a  corner  of  the 
window-sill,  and  on  the  chest  of  drawers  stood  the  nosegay  of 
Christmas  roses  which  Guy  had  brought  for  his  sister  yester- 
day morning.  Nay,  her  shawl — a  white,  soft,  furry  shawl, 
that  she  was  fond  of  wearing — remained  still  hanging  up  be- 
hind the  door.  One  could  almost  fancy  the  little  maid  had 
just  been  said  "good-night"  to,  and  left  to  dream  the  childish 
dreams  on  her  nursery  pillow,  where  the  small  head  rested  so 
peacefully,  with  that  pretty  babyish  night-cap  tied  over  the 
pretty  curls. 

There  she  was,  the  child  who  had  gone  out  of  the  number 
of  our  children — our  earthly  children — forever. 

Her  mother  sat  down  at  the  side  of  the  i>ed,  her  father  at 
its  foot,  looking  at  her.  Lord  Eavenel  stood  by,  motionless; 
then  stooping  down,  he  kissed  the  small  marble  hand. 

"Good-bye,  good-bye,  my  little  Muriel!" 

And  he  left  the  room  abruptly,  in  such  an  anguish  of  grief 
that  the  mother  rose  and  followed  him. 

John  went  to  the  door  and  locked  it  almost  with  a  sort  of 
impatience;  then  came  back  and  stood  by  his  darling,  alone. 
Me  he  never  saw — no,  nor  anything  in  the  world  except  that 
little  face,  even  in  death  so  strangely  like  his  own.  The  face 
which  had  been  for  eleven  years  the  joy  of  his  heart,  the  very 
apple  of  his  e}re. 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  gazing,  in  a  stupor  of  silence; 
then  sinking  on  his  knees,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  across 
the  bed,  with  a  bitter  cry: 

"Come  back  to  me,  my  darling,  my  first-born!  Come  back 
to  me,  Muriel,  my  little  daughter — my  own  little  daughter  1" 

But  thou  wert  with  the  angels,  Muriel — Muriel! 


324  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

We  went  home,  leaving  all  that  was  mortal  of  our  darling 
sleeping  at  Enderley  underneath  the  snows. 

For  twelve  years  after  that  we  lived  at  Longfield;  in  such 
unbroken,  uneventful  peace,  that  looking  back  seems  like 
looking  back  over  a  level  sea,  whose  leagues  of  tiny  ripples 
make  one  smooth  glassy  plain. 

Let  me  recall,  as  the  first  wave  that  rose,  ominous  of  change 
— a  certain  spring  evening,  when  Mrs.  Halifax  and  I  were  sit- 
ting, as  was  our  wont,  under  the  walnut-tree.  The  same  old 
walnut  tree,  hardly  a  bough  altered,  though  many  of  its  neigh- 
bors and  kindred  had  grown  from  saplings  into  trees — even 
as  some  of  us  had  grown  from  children  almost  into  young 
men. 

"Edwin  is  late  home  from  Norton  Bury,"  said  Ursula. 

"So  is  his  father." 

"No — this  is  just  John's  time.  Hark!  there  are  the  car- 
riage wheels!" 

For  Mr.  Halifax,  a  prosperous  man  now,  drove  daily  to  and 
from  his  mills,  in  as  tasteful  an  equipage  as  any  of  the  country 
gentry  between  here  and  Enderley. 

His  wife  went  down  to  the  stream  to  meet  him  as  usual,  and 
they  came  up  the  field  path  together. 

Both  were  changed  from  the  John  and  Ursula  of  whom  I 
last  wrote.  She  active  and  fresh-looking  still,  but  settling 
into  that  fair  largeness  which  is  not  unbecoming  a  lady  of 
middle-age;  he,  inclined  to  a  slight  stoop,  with  the  lines  of  his 
face  more  sharply  defined,  and  the  hair  wearing  away  off  his 
forehead  up  to  the  crown.  Though  still  not  a  gray  thread  was 
discernible  in  the  crisp  locks  at  the  back,  which  successively 
five  little  ones  had  pulled,  and  played  with,  and  nestled  in; 
not  a  sign  of  age,  as  yet,  in  "father's  curls." 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoken  to  me,  he  looked  round  as  usual 
for  his  children,  and  asked  if  the  boys  and  Maud  would  be 
home  to  tea? 

"I  think  Guy  and  Walter  never  do  come  home  in  time  when 
they  go  over  to  the  Manor  House." 

"The/re  young— let  them  enjoy   themselves/'  said    the 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  325 

father,  smiling.  "And  you  know,  love,  of  all  our  'fine'  friends, 
there  are  none  you  so  heartily  approve  of  as  the  Oldtowers." 

These  were  not  of  the  former  race.  Good  old  Sir  Ealph 
had  gone  to  his  rest,  and  Sir  Herbert  reigned  in  his  stead — 
Sir  Herbert,  who  in  his  dignified  gratitude  never  forgot  a  cer- 
tain election-day,  when  he  first  made  the  personal  acquaint- 
ance of  Mr.  Halifax.  The  Manor  House  family  brought  sev- 
eral other  "country  families"  to  our  notice,  or  us  to  theirs. 
These  when  John's  fortunes  grew  rapidly — as  many  another 
fortune  grew,  in  the  beginning  of  the  thirty  years'  peace,  when 
unknown  petty  manufacturers  first  rose  into  merchant  princes 
and  cotton  lords — these  gentry  made  a  perceptible  distinction, 
often  amusing  enough  to  us,  between  John  Halifax,  the  tanner 
of  Xorton  Bury,  and  Mr.  Halifax,  the  prosperous  owner  of 
Enderley  Mills.  Some  of  them,  too,  were  clever  enough  to 
discover  what  a  pleasant  and  altogether  "visitable"  lady  was 
Mrs.  Halifax,  daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  March,  a  governor  in 
the  West  Indies,  and  cousin  of  Mr.  Brithwood,  of  the  Mythe. 
But  Mrs.  Halifax,  with  quiet  tenacity,  altogether  declined  be- 
ing visited  as  anything  but  Mrs.  Halifax,  wife  of  John  Hali- 
fax, tanner,  or  mill-owner,  or  whatever  he  might  be.  All  hon- 
ors and  all  civilities  that  did  not  come  through  him,  and  with 
him,  were  utterly  valueless  to  her. 

To  this  her  peculiarity  was  added  another  of  John's  own, 
namely,  that  all  his  life  he  had  been  averse  to  what  is  called 
"society;"  had  eschewed  "acquaintances,"  and — but  most  men 
might  easily  count  upon  their  fingers  the  number  of  those 
who,  during  a  lifetime,  are  found  worthy  of  the  sacred  name 
of  "friend."  Consequently,  our  circle  of  associations  was  far 
more  limited  than  that  of  many  families  holding  an  equal  posi- 
tion Avith  us — on  which  circumstance  our  neighbors  com- 
mented a  good  deal.  But  little  we  cared;  no  more  than  we 
had  cared  for  the  chit-chat  of  Norton  Bury.  Our  whole 
hearts  were  bound  up  within  our  own  home — our  happy  Long- 
field. 

"I  do  think  this  place  is  growing  prettier  than  ever,"  said 
John,  when,  tea  being  over — a  rather  quiet  meal  without  a 
single  child — we  elders  went  out  again  to  the  walnut  tree 
bench.  "Certainly,  prettier  than  ever;"  and  his  eye  wandered 
over  the  quaint,  low  house,  all  odds  and  ends — for  nearly  every 
year  something  had  been  built  or  something  pulled  down;  then 
crossing  the  smooth  bit  of  lawn,  Jem  Watkins'  special  pride, 
it  rested  on  the  sloping  field,  yellow  with  tall  buttercups, 


326  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

wavy  with  growing  grass.  "Let  me  see — how  long  have  we 
lived  here?  Phineas,  you  are  the  one  for  remembering  dates. 
What  year  was  it  we  came  to  Longfield?" 

"Eighteen  hundred  and  twelve.     Thirteen  years  ago." 

"Ah,  so  long!" 

"Not  too  long,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  earnestly.  "I  hope  we 
may  end  our  days  here.  Do  not  you,  John?" 

He  paused  a  little  before  answering.  "Yes,  I  wish  it;  but 
I  am  not  sure  how  far  it  would  be  right  to  do  it." 

"We  will  not  open  that  subject  again,"  said  the  mother,  un- 
easily. "I  thought  we  had  all  made  up  our  minds  that  little 
Longfield  was  a  thousand  times  pleasanter  than  Beechwood, 
grand  as  it  is.  But  John  thinks  he  never  can  do  enough  for 
his  people  at  Enderley." 

"Not  that  alone,  love.  Other  reasons  combined.  Do  you 
know,  Phineas,"  he  continued,  musingly,  as  he  watched  the 
sun  set  over  Leckington  Hill,  "sometimes  I  fancy  my  life  is 
too  easy — that  I  am  not  a  wise  steward  of  the  riches  that  ha\e 
multiplied  so  fast.  By  fifty,  a  man  so  blest  as  I  have  been, 
ought  to  have  done  something  of  real  use  in  the  world — and  I 
am  forty-five.  Once  I  hoped  to  have  done  wonderful  things 
ere  I  was  forty-five.  But  somehow  the  desire  faded." 

His  wife  and  I  were  silent.  We  both  knew  the  truth;  that 
calm  as  had  flowed  his  outer  existence,  in  which  was  omitted 
not  one  actual  duty;  still,  for  these  twelve  years,  all  the  high 
aims  which  make  the  glory  and  charm  of  life  as  duty  make 
its  strength,  all  the  active  energies  and  noble  ambitions  .which 
especially  belong  to  the  prime  of  manhood,  in  him  had  been, 
not  dead,  perhaps,  but  sleeping.  Sleeping,  beyond  the  power 
of  any  human  voice  to  waken  them,  under  the  daisies  of  a 
child's  grave  at  Enderley. 

I  know  not  if  this  was  right — but  it  was  scarcely  unnatural. 
In  that  heart,  which  loved  as  few  men  love,  and  remembered 
as  few  men  remember — so  deep  a  wound  could  never  be  thor- 
oughly healed.  A  certain  something  in  him  seemed  different 
ever  after,  as  if  a  portion  of  the  father's  own  life  had  been 
taken  away  with  Muriel,  and  lay  buried  in  the  little  dead  bo- 
som of  his  first-born,  his  dearest  child. 

"You  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  tenderly,  "you  forget, 
John,  how  much  you  have  been  doing,  and  intend  to  do. 
What  with  your  improvements  at  Enderley  and  your  Catholic 
Emancipation,  your  Abolition  of  Slavery  and  your  Parliament- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  327 

ary  Reform — why,  there  is  hardly  any  scheme  for  good,  public 
or  private,  to  which  you  do  not  lend  a  helping  hand." 

"A  helping  purse,  perhaps,  which  is  an  easier  thing,  much." 

"I  will  not  have  you  blame  yourself.  Ask  Phineas,  there — 
our  household  Solomon." 

"Thank  you,  Ursula,"  said  I,  submitting  to  the  not  rare  for- 
tune of  being  loved  and  laughed  at. 

"Uncle  Phineas,  what  better  could  John  have  done  in  all 
these  years,  than  look  after  his  mills,  and  educate  his  three 
sons?" 

"Have  them  educated,  rather,"  corrected  he,  sensitive  over 
his  own  painfully-gained  and  limited  acquirements.  Yet  this 
feeling  had  made  him  doubly  careful  to  give  his  boys  every 
possible  advantage  of  study,  short  of  sending  them  from  home, 
to  which  he  had  an  invincible  objection.  And  three  finer 
lads,  or  better  educated,  there  could  not  be  found  in  the  whole 
county. 

"I  think,  John,  Guy  has  quite  got  over  his  fancy  of  going  to 
Cambridge  with  Ralph  Oldtower." 

"Yes;  college  life  would  not  have  done  for  Guy,"  said  the 
father,  thoughtfully. 

"Hush!  we  must  not  talk  about  them,  for  here  come  the 
children." 

It  was  now  a  mere  figure  of  speech  to  call  them  so,  though, 
in  their  home-talk,  loving  simplicity,  they  would  neither  have 
been  ashamed  nor  annoyed  at  the  epithet — these  two  tall  lads, 
who  in  the  dusk  looked  as  man-like  as  their  father. 

"Where  is  your  sister,  boys?" 

"Maud  stopped  at  the  stream  with  Edwin,"  answered  Guy, 
rather  carelessly.  His  heart  had  kept  his  childish  faith;  the 
youngest,  pet  as  she  was,  was  never  anything  to  him  but  "little 
Maud."  One — whom  the  boys  still  talked  of,  softly  and  ten- 
derty,  in  fireside  evening  talks,  when  the  winter  winds  came 
and  the  snow  was  falling — one  only  was  ever  spoken  of  by 
Guy  as  "sister." 

Maud,  or  Miss  Halifax,  as  from  the  first  she  was  naturally 
called — as  naturally  as  our  lost  darling  was  never  called  any- 
thing else  than  Muriel — came  up,  hanging  on  Edwin's  arm, 
which  she  was  fond  of  doing,  both  because  it  happened  to  be 
the  only  arm  low  enough  to  suit  her  childish  nature,  and  be- 
cause she  was  especially  "Edwin's  girl,"  and  had  been  so  al- 
ways. She  had  grown  out  of  the  likeness  that  we  longed  for 
in  her  cradle  days,  or  else  we  had  grown  out  of  the  perception 


328  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

of  it;  for  though  the  external  resemblance  in  hair  and  com- 
plexion still  remained,  nothing  could  be  more  unlike  in  spirit 
than  this  sprightly  elf,  at  once  the  plague  and  pet  of  the  fam- 
ily, to  our  Muriel. 

"Edwin's  girl"  stole  away  with  him,  merrily  chattering.  Guy 
sat  down  beside  his  mother,  and  slipped  his  arm  round  her 
waist.  They  still  fondled  her  with  a  child-like  simplicity — 
these  her  almost  grown-up  sons;  who  had  never  been  sent  to 
school  for  a  day,  and  had  never  learned  from  other  sons  of  far 
different  mothers,  that  a  young  man's  chief  manliness  ought 
to  consist  in  despising  the  tender  charities  of  home. 

"Guy,  you  foolish  boy!"  as  she  took  his  cap  off  and  pushed 
back  his  hair,  trying  not  to  look  proud  of  his  handsome  face, 
"what  have  you  been  doing  all  day?" 

"Making  myself  agreeable,  of  course,  mother." 

"That  he  has,"  corroborated  Walter,  whose  great  object  of 
hero-worship  was  his  eldest  brother.  "He  talked  with  Lady 
Oldtower,  and  he  sang  with  Miss  Oldtower  and  Miss  Grace. 
Never  was  there  such  a  fellow  as  our  Guy." 

"Nonsense!"  said  his  mother,  while  Guy  only  laughed,  too 
accustomed  to  this  family  admiration  to  be  much  disconcerted 
or  harmed  thereby. 

"When  does  Ralph  return  to  Cambridge?" 

"Not  at  all.  He  is  going  to  leave  college,  and  be  off  to  help 
the  Greeks.  Father,  do  you  know  everybody  is  joining  the 
Greeks?  Even  Lord  Byron  is  off  with  the  rest.  I  only  wish 
I  were." 

"Heaven  forbid!"  muttered  the  mother. 

"Why  not?  I  should  have  made  a  capital  soldier,  and  liked 
it,  too,  better  than  anything." 

"Better  than  being  my  right  hand  at  the  mills,  and  your 
mother's  at  home?  Better  than  growing  up  to  be  our  eldest 
son,  our  comfort  and  our  hope?  I  think  not,  Guy/' 

"You  are  right,  father,"  was  the  answer,  with  an  uneasy 
look.  For  this  description  seemed  less  what  Guy  was,  than 
what  we  desired  him  to  be.  With  his  easy,  happy  temper, 
generous  but  uncertain,  and  his  showy,  brilliant  parts,  he  was 
not  nearly  so  much  to  be  depended  on  as  the  grave  Edwin, 
who  was  already  a  thorough  man  of  business,  and  plodded  be- 
tween Enderley  Mills  and  a  smaller  one  which  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  flour  mill  at  Norton  Bury,  with  indomitable  per- 
severance. 

Guy  fell  into  a  brown  study,  not  unnoticed  by  those  anxious 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  329 

eyes,  which  lingered  oftener  upon  his  face  than  on  that  of  any 
of  her  sons.  Mrs.  Halifax  said,  in  her  quick,  decisive  way, 
that  it  was  "time  to  go  in." 

So  the  sunset  picture  outside  changed  to  the  home-group 
within;  the  mother  sitting  at  her  little  table,  where  the  tall 
silver  candlestick  shed  a  subdued  light  on  her  work-basket, 
that  never  was  empty,  and  her  busy  fingers,  that  never  were 
still.  The  father  sat  beside  her;  he  kept  his  old  habit  of  lik- 
ing to  have  her  close  to  him;  ay,  even  though  he  was  falling 
into  the  middle-aged  comforts  of  an  arm-chair  and  newspaper. 
There  he  sat,  sometimes  reading  aloud,  or  talking;  sometimes 
lazily  watching  her,  with  silent,  loving  eyes,  that  saw  beauty 
in  his  old  wife  still. 

The  young  folk  scattered  themselves  about  the  room.  Guy 
and  Walter  at  the  unshuttered  window — we  had  a  habit  of 
never  hiding  our  home-light — were  looking  at  the  moon 
and  laying  bets,  sotto  voce,  upon  how  many  minutes  she 
would  be  in  climbing  over  the  oak  on  the  top  of  One-tree  Hill. 
Edwin  sat  reading  hard,  his  shoulders  up  to  his  ears,  and  his 
fingers  stuck  through  his  hair,  developing  the  whole  of  his 
broad,  knobbed,  knotted  forehead,  where,  Maud  declared,  the 
wrinkles  had  already  begun  to  show.  For  Mistress  Maud  her- 
self, she  flitted  about  in  all  directions,  interrupting  everything 
and  doing  nothing. 

"Maud,"  said  her  father,  at  last,  "I  am  afraid  you  give  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  to  Uncle  Phineas." 

Uncle  Phineas  tried  to  soften  the  fact  but  the  little  lady  was 
certainly  the  most  trying  of  his  pupils.  Her  mother  she  had 
long  escaped  from,  for  the  advantage  of  both.  For,  to  tell  the 
truth,  while  in  the  invisible  atmosphere  of  moral  training  the 
mother's  influence  was  invaluable,  in  the  minor  branch  of 
lesson-learning  there  might  have  been  found  many  a  better 
teacher  than  Ursula  Halifax.  So  the  children's  education 
was  chiefly  left  to  me;  other  tutors  succeeding  as  was  neces- 
sary; and  it  had  just  begun  to  be  considered  whether  a  lady 
governess  ought  not  to  "finish"  the  education  of  Miss  Halifax. 
But  always  at  home.  Not  for  all  the  knowledge  and  all  the 
accomplishments  in  the  world  would  these  parents  have  suf- 
fered either  son  or  daughter — living  souls  intrusted  them  by 
the  Divine  Father — to  be  brought  up  anywhere  out  of  their 
own  sight,  out  of  the  shelter  and  safeguard  of  their  own  nat- 
ural home. 

"Love,  when  I  was  waiting  to-day  in  Jessop's  bank " 


330  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

(Ah!  that  was  another  change,  to  which  we  were  even  yet 
not  familiar,  the  passing  away  of  our  good  doctor  and  his 
wife,  and  his  brother  and  heir  turning  the  old  dining  room 
into  a  "County  Bank — open  from  ten  till  four.") 

"While  waiting  there,  I  heard  of  a  lady  who  struck  me  as 
likely  to  be  an  excellent  governess  for  Maud." 

"Indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  not  over-enthusiastically. 
Maud  became  eager  to  know  "what  the  lady  was  like?"  at  the 
same  time  inquiring  "who  she  was?" 

"Who?  I  really  did  not  ask,"  John  answered,  smiling. 
"But  of  what  she  is  Jessop  gave  me  first-rate  evidence — a  good 
daughter,  who  teaches  in  Norton  Bury  anybody's  children  for 
any  sort  of  pay,  in  order  to  maintain  an  ailing  mother.  Ur- 
sula, you  would  let  her  teach  our  Maud,  I  know?" 

"Is  she  an  Englishwoman?"  For  Mrs.  Halifax,  prejudiced 
by  a  certain  French  lady  who  had  for  a  few  months  completely 
upset  the  peace  of  the  Manor  House,  and  even  slightly  tainted 
her  own  favorite,  pretty  Grace  Oldtower,  had  received  coldly 
this  governess  plan  from  the  beginning.  "Would  she  have  to 
live  with  us?" 

"I  think  so,  decidedly." 

"Then  it  can't  be.  The  house  will  not  accommodate  her. 
It  will  hardly  hold  even  ourselves.  No,  we  cannot  take  in 
anybody  else  at  Longfield." 

"But  we  may  have  to  leave  Longfield." 

The  boys  here  turned  to  listen;  for  this  question  had  al- 
ready been  mooted,  as  all  family  questions  were.  In  our  house 
we  had  no  secrets;  the  young  folk,  being  trusted,  were  ever 
trustworthy;  and  the  parents,  clean-handed  and  pure-hearted, 
had  nothing  that  they  were  afraid  to  tell  their  children. 

"Leave  Longfield!"  repeated  Mrs.  Halifax;  "surely — surely 

"  But  glancing  at  her  husband,  her  tone  of  impatience 

ceased. 

He  sat  gazing  into  the  fire  with  an  anxious  air. 

"Don't  let  us  discuss  that  question — at  least,  not  to-n?ght. 
It  troubles  you,  John.  Put  it  off  till  to-morrow." 

No,  that  was  never  his  habit.  He  was  one  of  the  very  few 
who,  a  thing  being  to  be  done,  will  not  trust  it  to  uncertain 
"to-morrows."  His  wife  saw  that  he  wanted  to  talk  to  her, 
and  listened. 

"Yes,  the  question  does  trouble  me  a  good  deal.  Whether, 
now  that  our  children  are  growing  up,  and  our  income  is 
doubling  and  trebling  year  by  year,  we  ought  to  widen  our 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  331 

circle  of  usefulness,  or  close  it  up  permanently  within  the 
quiet  bound  of  little  Longfield.  Love,  which  say  you?" 
"The  latter,  the  latter — because  it  is  far  the  happiest." 
"I  am  afraid  not  the  latter,  because  it  is  the  happiest." 
He  spoke  gently,  laying  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoulder,  and 
looking  down  on  her  with  that  peculiar  look  which  he  always 
had  when  telling  her  things  that  he  knew  were  sore  to  hear. 
I  never  saw  that  look  on  any  living  face  save  John's;  but  I 
have  seen  it  once  in  a  picture — of  two  Huguenot  lovers.  The 
woman  is  trying  to  fasten  round  the  man's  neck  the  white 
badge  that  will  save  him  from  the  massacre  (of  St.  Bartholo- 
mew); he,  clasping  her  the  while,  gently  puts  it  aside — not 
stern,  but  smiling.  That  quiet,  tender  smile,  firmer  than  any 
frown,  will,  you  feel  sure,  soon  control  the  woman's  anguish, 
so  that  she  will  sob  out — any  faithful  woman  would — "Go, 
die!  Dearer  to  me  than  even  thyself  are  thy  honor  and  thy 
duty!" 

When  I  saw  this  noble  picture,  it  touched  to  the  core  this 
old  heart  of  mine;  for  the  painter,  in  that  rare  expression, 
might  have  caught  John's.  Just  as  in  a  few  crises  of  his  life 
I  have  seen  it,  and  especially  in  this  one,  when  he  first  told  to 
his  wife  that  determination  which  he  had  slowly  come  to — 
that  it  was  both  right  and  expedient  for  us  to  quit  Longfield. 
our  happy  home  for  so  many  years,  of  which  the  mother  loved 
every  ftower  in  the  garden,  every  nook  and  stone  in  the  walls. 
"Leave  Longfield!"  she  repeated  again  with  a  bitter  sigh. 
"Leave  Longfield!"  echoed  the  children,  first  the  youngest 
then  the  eldest  but  rather  in  curiosity  than  regret.  Edwin's 
keen,  bright  eyes  were  just  lifted  from  his  book,  and  fell  again ; 
he  was  not  a  lad  of  much  speech,  or  much  demonstration  of 
any  kind. 

"Boys,  come  and  let  us  talk  over  the  matter." 
They  came  at  once  and  joined  in  the  circle;  respectfully,  yet 
with  entire  freedom,  they  looked  toward  their  father — these, 
the  sons  of  his  youth,  to  whom  he  had  been  from  their  birth 
not  only  parent  and  head,  but  companion,  guide,  and  familiar 
friend.  They  honored  him,  they  trusted  him,  they  loved  him; 
not,  perhaps,  in  the  exact  way  that  they  loved  their  mother; 
for  it  often  seems  Nature's  own  ordinance  that  a  mother's  in- 
fluence should  be  strongest  over  her  sons,  while  the  father's  is 
greatest  over  his  daughters.  But  even  a  stranger  could  not 
glance  from  each  to  each  of  those  attentive  faces,  so  different, 
yet  with  a  curious  "family  look"  running  through  them  all, 


332  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

without  seeing  in  what  deep,  reverent  affection,  such  as  nat- 
urally takes  the  place  of  childish  fondness,  these  youths  held 
their  father. 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid,  after  much  serious  thought  on  the  mat- 
ter, and  much  consultation  with  your  mother  here,  that  we 
ought  to  leave  Longfield." 

"So  I  think,"  said  Mistress  Maud,  from  her  footstool;  which 
putting  forward  of  her  important  opinion  shook  us  all  from 
gravity  to  merriment  that  compelled  even  Mrs.  Halifax  to 
join.  Then,  laying  aside  her  work,  and  with  it  the  saddened 
air  with  which  she  had  bent  over  it,  she  drew  her  chair  closer 
to  her  husband,  slipping  her  hand  in  his,  and  leaning  against 
his  shoulder.  Upon  which  Guy,  who  had  at  first  watched  his 
mother  anxiously,  doubtful  whether  or  no  his  father's  plan 
had  her  approval,  and  therefore  ought  to  be  assented  to,  re- 
lapsed into  satisfied  undivided  attention. 

"I  have  again  been  over  Beechwood  Hall.  You  all  remem- 
ber Beechwood?" 

Yes.  It  was  the  "great  house"  at  Enderley,  just  on  the 
slope  of  the  hill,  below  Rose  Cottage.  The  beech-wood  itself 
was  part  of  its  pleasure  ground,  and  from  its  gardens  honest 
James  Tod  who  had  them  in  keeping,  had  brought  many  a 
pocketful  of  pears  for  the  boys,  many  a  sweet-scented  nosegay 
for  Muriel. 

"Beechwood  has  been  empty  a  great  many  years,  father? 
Would  it  be  a  safe  investment  to  buy  it?" 

"I  think  so,  Edwin,  my  practical  lad,"  answered  the  father, 
smiling.  "What  say  you,  children?  Would  you  like  living 
there?" 

Each  one  made  his  or  her  comment.  Guy's  countenance 
brightened  at  the  notion  of  "lots  of  shooting  and  fishing" 
about  Enderley,  especially  at  Luxmore;  and  Maud  counted  on 
the  numerous  visitors  that  would  come  to  John  Halifax,  Es- 
quire, of  Beechwood  Hall. 

"Neither  of  which  excellent  reasons  happen  to  be  your 
father's,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  shortly.  But  John,  often  ten- 
derer over  youthful  frivolities  than  she,  answered: 

"I  will  tell  you,  boys,  what  are  my  reasons.  When  I  was  a 
young  man,  before  your  mother  and  I  were  married,  indeed 
before  I  had  ever  seen  her,  I  had  strongly  impressed  on  my 
mind  the  wish  to  gain  influence  in  the  world — riches  if  I  could 
— but,  at  all  events,  influence.  I  thought  I  could  use  it  well, 
better  than  most  men;  those  can  beet  help  the  poor  who  un- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  333 

derstand  the  poor.  And  I  can;  since,  you  know,  when  Uncle 
Phineas  found  me,  I  was " 

"Father,"  said  Guy,  flushing  scarlet,  "we  may  as  well  pass 
over  that  fact.  We  are  gentlefolks  now." 

"We  always  were,  my  son." 

The  rebuke,  out  of  its  very  mildness,  cut  the  youth  to  the 
heart.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  coloring  now  with  a  different 
and  a  holier  shame. 

"I  know  that.     Please,  will  you  go  on,  father?" 

"And  now,"  the  father  continued,  speaking  as  much  out  of 
his  own  thoughts  as  aloud  to  his  children;  "now,  twenty-five 
years  of  labor  have  won  for  me  the  position  I  desired.  That 
is,  I  might  have  it  for  the  claiming.  I  might  take  my  place 
among  the  men  who  have  lately  risen  from  the  people  to  guide 
and  help  the  people — the  Cannings,  Husldssons,  Peels." 

"Would  you  enter  Parliament?  Sir  Herbert  asked  me  to- 
day if  you  ever  intended  it.  He  said  there  was  nothing  you 
might  not  attain  to  if  you  would  give  yourself  up  entirely  to 
politics." 

"No,  Guy,  no.  Wisdom,  like  charity,  begins  at  home.  Let 
me  learn  to  rule  in  my  own  valley,  among  my  own  people, 
before  I  attempt  to  guide  the  State.  And  that  brings  me 
back  again  to  the  pros  and  cons  about  Beechwood  Hall." 

"Tell  them,  John;  tell  all  out  plainly  to  the  children." 

The  reasons  were — first,  the  advantage  of  the  boys  them- 
selves; for  John  Halifax  was  not  one  of  those  philanthropists 
who  would  benefit  all  the  world  except  their  own  household 
and  their  own  kin.  He  wished — since  the  higher  a  man  rises 
the  wider  and  nobler  grows  his  sphere  of  usefulness — not  only 
to  lift  himself,  but  his  sons  after  him;  lift  them  high  enough 
to  help  on  the  ever-advancing  tide  of  human  improvement, 
among  their  own  people  first,  and  thence  extending  outward 
in  the  world  whithersoever  their  talents  or  circumstances 
might  call  them. 

"I  understand,"  cried  the  eldest  son,  his  eyes  sparkling, 
"you  want  to  found  a  family.  And  so  it  shall  be — we  will  set- 
tle at  Beechwood  Hall;  all  coming  generations  shall  live  to  the 
honor  and  glory  of  your  name — our  name " 

"My  boy,  there  is  only  one  Name  to  whose  honor  we  should 
all  live.  One  Name  'in  whom  all  the  generations  of  the  earth 
are  blessed.'  In  thus  far  only  do  I  wish  to  'found  a  family/ 
as  you  call  it,  that  our  light  may  shine  before  men — that  we 


334  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

may  be  a  city  set  on  a  hill — that  we  may  say  plainly  unto  all 
that  ask  us,  'For  me  and  my  house,  we  will  serve  the  Lord.' " 

It  was  not  often  that  John  Halifax  spoke  thus;  adopting 
solemnly  the  literal  language  of  the  Book — his  and  our  life's 
guide,  no  word  of  which  was  ever  used  lightly  in  our  family. 
We  all  listened,  as  in  his  earnestness  he  rose,  and,  standing  up- 
right in  the  fire-light,  spoke  on. 

"I  believe,  with  His  blessing,  that  one  may  'serve  the  Lord' 
as  well  in  wealth  as  in  poverty,  in  a  great  house  as  in  a  cottage 
like  this.  I  am  not  doubtful,  even  though  my  possessions  are 
increased.  I  am  not  afraid  of  being  a  rich  man.  Nor  a  great 
man,  neither,  if  I  were  called  to  such  a  destiny." 

"It  may  be — who  knows?"  said  Ursula,  softly. 

John  caught  his  wife's  eyes,  and  smiled. 

"Love,  you  were  a  true  prophet  once,  with  a  certain  *Yes, 

you  will;'  but  now .  Children,  you  know  when  I  married 

your  mother  I  had  nothing,  and  she  gave  up  everything  for 
me.  I  said  I  would  yet  make  her  as  high  as  any  lady  in  the 
land — in  fortune,  I  then  meant,  thinking  it  would  make  her 
happier;  but  she  and  I  are  wiser  now.  We  know  that  we  can 
never  be  happier  than  we  were  in  the  old  house  at  Norton 
Bury,  or  in  this  little  Longfield.  By  making  her  lady  of 
Beechwood,  I  should  double  her  responsibilities  and  treble  her 
cares;  give  her  an  infinitude  of  new  duties,  and  no  pleasures 
half  so  sweet  as  those  we  left  behind.  Still,  of  herself  and  for 
herself,  my  wife  shall  decide." 

Ursula  looked  up  at  him;  tears  stood  in  her  eyes,  though 
through  them  shone  all  the  steadfastness  of  faithful  love. 
"Thank  you,  John.  I  have  decided.  If  you  wish  it,  if  you 
think  it  right,  we  will  leave  Longfield  and  go  to  Beechwood." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead,  saying  only,  "We  will 

go." 

Guy  looked  up,  half -reproachfully,  as  if  the  father  were  ex- 
acting a  sacrifice;  but  I  question  whether  the  greater  sacrifice 
were  not  his  who  took,  rather  than  hers  who  gave. 

So  all  was  settled — we  were  to  leave  beloved  Longfield.  It 
was  to  be  let,  not  sold;  let  to  a  person  we  knew,  who  would 
take  jealous  care  of  all  that  was  ours,  and  we  might  come  back 
and  see  it  continually;  but  it  would  be  ours,  our  own  home,  no 
more. 

Very  sad — sadder  even  than  I  had  thought — was  the  leav- 
ing all  the  familiar  things;  the  orchard  and  the  flower  garden, 
the  meadow  and  the  stream,  the  woody  hills  beyond,  every  line 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  335 

and  wave  of  which  was  pleasant  and  dear  almost  as  our  chil- 
dren's faces.  Ay,  almost  as  that  face  which  for  a  year,  one  little 
year,  had  lived  in  sight  of  but  never  beheld,  their  beauty;  the 
child  who  one  spring  day  had  gone  away  merrily  out  of  the 
white  gate  with  her  three  brothers,  and  never  came  back  to 
Longfield  any  more. 

Perhaps  this  circumstance,  that  her  fading  away  and  her  de- 
parture happened  away  from  home,  was  the  cause  why  her 
memory — the  memory  of  our  living  Muriel,  in  her  human 
childhood — afterward  clung  more  especially  about  the  house 
at  Longfield.  The  other  children  altered,  imperceptibly,  yet 
so  swiftly,  that  from  year  to  year  we  half  forgot  their  old  like- 
nesses. But  Muriel's  never  changed.  Her  image,  only  a 
shade,  yet  often  more  real  than  any  of  these  living  children, 
seemed  perpetually  among  us.  It  crept  through  the  house  at 
dusk;  in  winter  fire-light  it  sat  smiling  in  dim  corners;  in 
spring  mornings  it  moved  about  the  garden  borders,  with  tiny 
soft  footsteps,  neither  seen  nor  heard.  The  others  grew  up — 
would  be  men  and  women  shortly — but  the  one  child  "that 
was  not,"  remained  to  us  always  a  child. 

I  thought,  even  the  last  evening — the  very  last  evening  that 
John  returned  from  Enderley,  and  his  wife  went  down  to  the 
stream  to  meet  him,  and  they  came  up  the  field  together,  as 
they  had  done  for  so  many,  many  years — ay,  even  then  1 
thought  I  saw  his  eyes  turn  to  the  spot  where  a  little  pale  fig- 
ure used  to  sit  on  the  door-sill,  listening  and  waiting  for  him, 
with  her  dove  in  her  bosom.  "We  never  kept  doves  now. 

And  the  same  night,  when  all  the  household  was  in  bed — 
even  the  mother,  who  had  gone  about  with  restless  activity, 
trying  to  persuade  herself  that  there  would  be  at  least  no  possi- 
bility of  accomplishing  the  flitting  to-morrow — the  last  night, 
when  John  went  as  usual  to  fasten  the  house-door,  he  stood  a 
long  time  outside,  looking  down  the  valley. 

"'How  quiet  everything  is!  You  can  almost  hear  the  tinkle 
of  the  stream.  Poor  old  Longfield!"  And  I  sighed,  thinking 
we  should  never  again  have  such  another  home. 

John  did  not  answer.  He  had  been  mechanically  bending 
aside  and  training  into  its  place  a  long  shoot  of  wild  clematis 
— virgin's-bower — which  Guy  and  Muriel  had  brought  in 
from  the  fields  and  planted,  a  tiny  root;  it  covered  the  whole 
front  of  the  house  now.  Then  he  came  and  leaned  beside  me 
over  the  wicket-gate,  looking  fixedly  up  into  the  moonlight 
blue. 


236  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"I  wonder  if  she  knows  we  are  leaving  Longfield?" 
"Who?"  said  I,  for  a  moment  forgetting. 
"The  child." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Father  and  son — a  goodly  sight,  as  they  paced  side  by  side 
tip  and  down  the  gravel  walk — (alas!  the  pretty  field-path  be- 
longed to  days  that  were!) — up  and  down  the  broad  sunshiny 
walk,  in  front  of  the  breakfast-room  windows  of  Beechwood 
Hall. 

It  was  early — little  past  eight  o'clock;  but  we  kept  Long- 
field  hours  and  Longfield  ways  still.  And  besides  this  was  a 
grand  day — the  day  of  Guy's  coming  of  age.  Curious  it 
seemed  to  watch  him,  as  he  walked  along  by  his  father,  looking 
every  inch  "the  young  heir;"  and  perhaps  not  unconscious 
that  he  did  so;  curious  enough,  remembering  how  meekly  the 
boy  had  come  into  the  world  at  a  certain  old  house  at  Norton 
Bury,  one  rainy  December  morning  twenty-one  years  ago. 

It  was  a  bright  day  to-day — bright  as  all  our  faces  were,  I 
think,  as  we  gathered  round  the  cosy  breakfast-table.  There, 
as  heretofore,  it  was  the  mother's  pride  and  the  father's  pleas- 
ure that  not  one  face  should  be  missing — that,  summer  and 
winter,  all  should  assemble  for  an  hour  of  family  fun  and 
family  chat,  before  the  busy  cares  of  the  day;  and  by  general 
consent,  which  had  grown  into  habit,  every  one  tried  to  keep 
unclouded  this  little  bit  of  early  sunshine,  before  the  father 
and  brothers  went  away.  No  sour  or  dreary  looks,  no  painful 
topics  were  ever  brought  to  the  breakfast-table. 

Thus  it  was  against  all  custom,  when  Mr.  Halifax,  laying 
down  his  newspaper  with  a  grave  countenance,  said: 

"This  is  very  ill  news.  Ten  bank  failures  in  the  Gazette  to- 
day." 

"But  it  will  not  harm  us,  father." 

"Edwin  is  always  thinking  of  'us'  and  'our  business,' "  re- 
marked Guy,  rather  sharply.  It  was  one  of  the  slight — the 
very  slight — jars  in  our  household,  that  these  two  lads,  excel- 
lent lads  both,  as  they  grew  into  manhood,  did  not  exactly 
"pull  together." 

"Edwin  is  scarcely  wrong  in  thinking  of  'us,'  since  upon  us 
depend  so  many,"  observed  the  father,  in  that  quiet  tone  with 
which,  when  he  did  happen  to  interfere  between  his  sons,  he 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  337 

generally  smoothed  matters  down  and  kept  the  balance  even. 
"Yet,  though  we  are  ourselves  secure,  I  trust,  the  losses  every- 
where around  us  make  it  the  more  necessary  that  we  should  not 
parade  our  good  fortune  by  launching  out  into  any  of  Guy's 
magnificences;  eh,  my  boy?" 

The  youth  looked  down.  It  was  well  known  in  the  family, 
that  since  we  came  to  Beechwood  his  pleasure-loving  tempera- 
ment had  wanted  all  sorts  of  improvements  on  our  style  of  liv- 
ing— fox-hounds,  dinner  parties,  balls;  that  the  father's  ways, 
which,  though  extended  to  liberal  hospitalities,  forbade  out- 
ward show,  and  made  our  life  a  thorough  family  life  still — 
were  somewhat  distasteful  to  that  most  fascinating  young 
gentleman,  Guy  Halifax,  Esquire,  heir  of  Beechwood  Hall. 

"You  may  call  it  'magnificence/  or  what  you  choose;  but  I 
know  I  should  like  to  live  a  little  more  as  our  neighbors  do. 
And  I  think  we  ought  to — we  that  are  known  to  be  the  wealth- 
iest family " 

He  stopped  abruptly — for  the  door  opened;  and  Guy  had 
too  much  good  taste  and  good  feeling  to  discuss  our  riches  be- 
fore Maud's  poor  governess — the  tall,  grave,  sad-looking,  sad- 
clothed  Miss  Silver;  the  same  whom  John  had  seen  at  Mr.  Jes- 
sop's  bank;  and  who  had  been  with  us  four  months — ever 
since  we  came  to  Beechwood. 

One  of  the  boys  rose  and  offered  her  a  chair;  for  the  parents 
set  the  example  of  treating  her  with  entire  respect — nay, 
would  gladly  have  made  her  altogether  one  of  the  family  had 
she  not  been  so  very  reserved. 

Miss  Silver  came  forward  with  the  daily  nosegay  which 
Mrs.  Halifax  had  confided  to  her  superintendence. 

"They  are  the  best  I  can  find,  madam.  I  believe  Watkins 
keeps  all  his  greenhouse  flowers  for  to-night." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  These  will  do  very  well.  Yes,  Guy, 
persuade  Miss  Silver  to  take  your  place  by  the  fire.  She  looks 
so  cold/' 

But  Miss  Silver,  declining  the  kindness,  passed  on  to  her 
own  seat  opposite. 

Ursula  busied  herself  over  the  breakfast  equipage  rather 
nervously.  Though  an  admirable  person,  Miss  Silver,  in  her 
extreme  and  all  but  repellent  quietness,  was  one  whom  the 
mother  found  it  difficult  to  get  on  with.  She  was  scrupu- 
lously kind  to  her;  and  the  governess  was  as  scrupulously  ex- 
act in  all  courtesy  and  attention;  still  that  impassible,  self -con- 


338  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

tained  demeanor,  that  great  reticence — it  might  be  shyness,  it 
might  be  pride — sometimes,  Ursula  privately  admitted,  "fidg- 
eted" her. 

To-day  was  to  be  a  general  holiday  for  both  masters  and 
servants;  a  dinner  at  the  mills;  and  in  the  evening  something 
which,  though  we  called  it  a  tea-drinking,  began  to  look,  I 
was  amused  to  see,  exceedingly  like  "a  ball."  But  on  this  oc- 
casion both  parents  had  yielded  to  their  young  people's  wishes, 
and  half  the  neighborhood  had  been  invited  by  the  universally 
popular  Mr.  Guy  Halifax  to  celebrate  his  coming  of  age. 

"Only  once  in  the  way,"  said  the  mother,  half-ashamed  of 
herself  for  thus  indulging  the  boy — as,  giving  his  shoulder  a 
fond  shake,  she  called  him  "a  foolish  fellow." 

Then  we  all  dispersed;  Guy  and  Walter  to  ride  to  the  Manor 
House,  Edwin  vanishing  with  his  sister,  to  whom  he  was  giv- 
ing daily  Latin  lessons  in  the  school  room. 

John  asked  me  to  take  a  walk  on  the  hill  with  him. 

"Go,  Phineas,"  whispered  his  wife,  "it  will  do  him  good. 
And  don't  let  him  talk  too  much  of  old  times.  This  is  a  hard 
week  for  him." 

The  mother's  eyes  were  mournful,  for  Guy  and  "the  child" 
had  been  born  within  a  year  and  three  days  of  each  other;  but 
she  never  hinted — it  never  would  have  struck  her  to  hint — 
"this  is  a  hard  week  for  me." 

That  grief — the  one  great  grief  of  their  life,  had  come 
to  her  more  wholesomely  than  to  her  husband;  either  be- 
cause men,  the  very  best  of  men,  can  only  suffer,  while 
women  can  endure;  or  because  in  the  mysterious  ordinance  of 
nature  Maud's  baby  lips  had  sucked  away  the  bitterness  of 
the  pang  from  the  bereaved  mother,  while  her  loss  was  yet 
new.  It  had  never  been  left  to  rankle  in  that  warm  heart, 
which  had  room  for  every  living  child,  while  it  cherished, 
in  tenderness  above  all  sorrow,  the  child  that  was  no  more. 

John  and  I,  in  our  walk,  stood  a  moment  by  the  low  church- 
yard wall  and  looked  over  at  that  plain  white  stone,  where 
was  inscribed  her  name,  "Muriel  Joy  Halifax" — a  line  out  of 
that  New  Testament  miracle-story  she  delighted  in,  "Whereas 
I  was  blind,  now  I  see" — and  ihe  date  when  she  saw.  Noth- 
ing more;  it  was  not  needed. 

"December  5th,  1813,"  said  the  father,  reading  the  date. 
"She  would  have  been  quite  a  woman  now.  How  strange! 
My  little  Muriel!" 

And  he  walked  thoughfully  along,  almost  in  the  same  foot- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  339 

prints  where  he  had  been  used  to  carry  his  darling  up  the 
nill-side  to  the  brow  of  Enderley  Flat.  He  seemed  in  fancy 
to  bear  her  in  his  arms  still — this  little  one,  whom,  as  I  have 
before  said,  Heaven,  in  its  compensating  mercy,  year  by  year, 
through  all  changes,  had  made  the  one  treasure  that  none 
could  take  away — the  only  child  left  to  be  a  child  forever. 

I  think,  as  we  rested  in  the  self-same  place,  the  sunshiny 
nook  where  we  used  to  sit  with  her  for  hours  together,  the 
father's  heart  took  this  consolation  so  closely  and  surely  into 
itself,  that  memory  altogether  ceased  to  be  pain.  He  began 
talking  about  the  other  children — especially  Maud — and  then 
of  Miss  Silver,  her  governess. 

"I  wish  she  were  more  likeable,  John.  It  vexes  me  some- 
times to  see  how  coldly  she  returns  the  mother's  kindness." 

"Poor  thing!  she  has  evidently  not  been  used  to  kindness. 
You  should  have  seen  how  amazed  she  looked  yesterday  when 
we  paid  her  a  little  more  than  her  salary,  and  my  wife  gave 
her  a  pretty  silk  dress  to  wear  to-night.  I  hardly  knew 
whether  she  would  refuse  it,  or  burst  out  crying,  in  girlish 
fashion." 

"Is  she  a  girl?  Why,  the  boys  say  she  looks  thirty  at  least. 
Guy  and  Walter  laugh  amazingly  at  her  dowdy  dress  and  her 
solemn,  haughty  ways." 

"That  will  do.  Phineas.  I  must  speak  to  them.  They 
ought  to  make  allowances  for  poor  Miss  Silver,  of  whom  I 
think  most  highly." 

"I  know  you  do;  but  do  you  heartily  like  her?" 

"For  most  things,  yes.  And  I  sincerely  respect  her,  or,  of 
course,  she  would  not  be  here.  I  think  people  should  be  as 
particular  over  choosing  their  daughter's  governess  as  their 
son's  wife;  and  having  chosen,  should  show  her  almost  equal 
honor." 

"You'll  have  your  sons  choosing  themselves  wives  soon, 
John.  I  fancy  Guy  has  a  soft  place  in  his  heart  for  that  pretty 
Grace  Oldtower." 

But  the  father  made  no  answer.  He  was  always  tenacious 
over  the  lightest  approach  to  such  jests  as  these.  And  be- 
sides, just  at  this  moment  Mr.  Brown,  Lord  Luxmore's  stew- 
ard, passed — riding  solemnly  along.  He  barely  touched  his 
hat  to  Mr.  Halifax. 

"Poor  Mr.  Brown!  He  has  a  grudge  against  me  for  those 
Mexican  speculations  I  refused  to  embark  in;  he  did,  and 
lost  everything  but  what  he  gets  from  Lord  Luxmore.  I  do 


340  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

think,  Phineas,  the  country  has  been  running  mad  this  year 
after  speculation.  There  is  sure  to  come  a  panic  afterward, 
and,  indeed,  it  seems  already  beginning." 

"But  you  are  secure?  You  have  not  joined  in  the  mania, 
and  the  crash  cannot  harm  you?  Did  I  not  hear  you  say  that 
you  were  not  afraid  of  losing  a  single  penny?" 

"Yes — unfortunately,"  with  a  troubled  smile. 

"John,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  to  stand  upright  while  one's  neighbors  are  fall- 
ing on  all  sides,  is  a  most  trying  position.  Misfortune  makes 
people  unjust.  The  other  day  at  the  sessions  I  got  cold  looks 
enough  from  my  brother  magistrates — looks  that  would  have 
set  my  blood  boiling  twenty  years  ago.  And — you  saw  in 
the  Norton  Bury  Mercury  that  article  about  'grasping  plebeian 
millionaires' — 'wool-spinners,  spinning  out  of  their  country's 
vitals/  That's  meant  for  me,  Phineas.  Don't  look  incred- 
ulous. Yes — for  me." 

"How  disgraceful!" 

"Perhaps  so — but  to  them  more  than  to  me.  I  feel  sorry, 
because  of  the  harm  it  may  do  me — especially  among  working 
people,  who  know  nothing  but  what  they  hear,  and  believe 
everything  that  is  told  them.  They  see  I  thrive  and  others 
fail — that  my  mills  are  the  only  cloth-mills  in  full  work,  and 
I  have  more  hands  than  I  can  employ.  Every  week  I  am 
obliged  to  send  new-comers  away.  Then  they  raise  the  old  cry 
that  my  machinery  has  ruined  labor.  So,  you  see,  for  all  that 
Guy  says  about  our  prosperity,  his  father  does  not  sleep  ex- 
actly upon  a  bed  of  roses." 

"It  is  wicked — atrocious!" 

"Not  at  all.  Only  natural — the  penalty  one  has  to  pay  for 
success.  It  will  die  out  most  likely;  meantime,  we  will  mind 
it  as  little  as  we  can." 

"But  are  you  safe? — your  life "  For  a  sudden  fear 

crossed  me — a  fear  not  unwarranted  by  more  than  one  event 
of  this  year — this  terrible  1825. 

"Safe? — yes" — and  his  eyes  were  lifted.  "I  believe  my  life 
is  safe — if  I  have  work  to  do.  Still,  for  others'  sake,  I  have 
carried  this  month  past  whenever  I  go  to  and  from  the  Colt- 
ham  bank  besides  my  cash-box — this." 

He  showed  me,  peering  out  of  his  breast-pocket,  a  small 
pistol. 

I  was  greatly  startled. 

"Does  your  wife  know?" 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  341 

"Of  course.  But  she  knows,  too,  that  nothing  but  the  last 
extremity  would  force  me  to  use  it:  also  that  my  carrying  it, 
and  its  being  noised  about  that  I  do  so,  may  prevent  my  ever 
having  occasion  to  use  it.  God  grant  I  never  may!  Don't  let 
us  talk  about  this." 

He  stopped,  gazing  with  a  sad  abstraction  down  the  sun- 
shiny valley,  most  part  of  which  was  already  his  own  prop- 
erty. For  whatever  capital  he  could  spare  from  his  busi- 
ness he  never  sunk  in  speculation,  but  took  a  patriarchal  pleas- 
ure in  investing  it  in  land,  chiefly  for  the  benefit  of  his  mills 
and  those  concerned  therein. 

"My  poor  people — they  might  have  known  me  better!  But 
I  suppose  one  never  attains  one's  desire  without  its  being 
leavened  with  some  bitterness.  If  there  was  one  point  I  was 
anxious  over  in  my  youth,  it  was  to  keep  up  through  life  a 
name  like  the  Chevalier  Bayard — how  folk  would  smile  to 
hear  of  a  tradesman  emulating  Bayard — 'Sans  peur  et  sans  re- 
proche!'  And  so  things  might  be — ought  to  be.  So  per- 
haps they  shall  be  yet,  in  spite  of  this  calumny." 

"How  shall  you  meet  it?    What  shall  you  do?" 

"Nothing.    Live  it  down." 

He  stood  still,  looking  across  the  valley  to  where  the  frosty 
line  of  the  hill-tops  met  the  steel-blue,  steadfast  sky. 

Yes,  I  felt  sure  he  would  "live  it  down." 

We  dismissed  the  subject,  and  spent  an  hour  or  more  in 
pleasant  chat  about  many  things.  Passing  homeward  through 
the  beech-wood,  where  through  the  bare  tree-tops  a  light 
snow  was  beginning  to  fall,  John  said,  musingly: 

"It  will  be  a  hard  winter — we  shall  have  to  help  our  poor 
people  a  great  deal.  Christmas  dinners  will  be  much  in  re- 
quest." 

"There's  a  saying  that  the  way  to  an  Englishman's  heart 
is  through  his  stomach.  So,  perhaps,  you'll  get  justice  by 
spring." 

"Don't  be  angry,  Phineas.  As  I  tell  my  wife,  it  is  not  worth 
while.  Half  the  wrongs  people  do  to  us  are  through  sheer 
ignorance.  We  must  be  patient.  'In  your  patience  possess 
ye  your  souls.' '' 

He  said  this  more  to  himself  than  aloud,  as  if  carrying  out 
the  thread  of  his  own  thought.  Mine  following  it,  and  ob- 
serving him,  involuntarily  turned  to  another  passage  in  our 
Book  of  books,  about  the  blessedness  of  some  men,  even  when 
reviled  and  persecuted. 


342  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Ay,  and  for  all  his  many  cares,  John  Halifax  looked  like  a 
man  who  was  "blessed." 

Blessed,  and  happy  too,  throughout  that  day,  especially  in 
the  midst  of  the  mill-yard  dinner — which  reminded  me  forci- 
bly of  that  feast  at  which  guests  were  gathered  out  of  the 
highways  and  hedges — guests,  such  as  John  Halifax  liked  to 
have — guests  who  could  not,  by  any  possibility,  "recompense" 
him.  Yet  it  did  one's  heart  good  to  hear  the  cheer  that 
greeted  the  master,  ay,  and  the  young  master  too,  who  was 
to-day  for  the  first  time  presented  as  such — a&  the  firm  hence- 
forth was  to  be  "Halifax  &  Son." 

And  full  of  smiling  satisfaction  was  the  father's  look,  when 
in  the  evening  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  children,  waiting 
for  "Guy's  visitors,"  as  he  pertinaciously  declared  them  to  be — 
these  fine  people,  for  whose  entertainment  our  house  has  been 
these  three  days  turned  upside  down;  the  sober  old  dining- 
room  converted  into  a  glittering  ball-room,  and  the  entrance- 
hall  a  very  "bower  of  bliss" — all  green  boughs  and  Chinese- 
lanterns.  John  protested  he  should  not  have  knoAvn  his  own 
study  again;  and  that,  if  these  festive  transformations  were 
to  happen  frequently,  he  should  soon  not  even  know  him- 
self! 

Yet  for  all  that,  and  in  spite  of  the  comical  horror  he  testi- 
fied at  this  first  bouleversement  of  our  quiet  home  ways,  I 
think  he  had  a  real  pleasure  in  his  children's  delight;  in 
wandering  with  them  through  the  decorated  rooms,  tapestried 
with  ivy,  and  laurel,  and  arbor- vitae:  in  making  them  all 
pass  in  review  before  him,  and  admiring  their  handiwork  and 
themselves. 

A  goodly  group  they  made — our  young  folk:  there  were  no 
"children"  now;  for  even  Maud,  who  was  tall  and  woman- 
ly for  her  age,  had  bloomed  out  in  a  ball-dress,  all  white  mus- 
lin and  camelias,  and  appeared  every  inch  "Miss  Halifax." 
Walter,  too,  had  lately  eschewed  jackets,  and  began  to  bor- 
row razors;  while  Edwin,  though  still  small,  had  a  keen,  old- 
man-like  look,  which  made  him  seem — as  he  was,  indeed,'  in 
character — the  eldest  of  the  three.  Altogether,  they  were 
"a  fine  family,"  such  as  any  man  might  rejoice  to  see  growing 
or  grown  up  around  him. 

But  my  eyes  naturally  sought  the  father,  as  he  stood  among 
his  boys,  taller  than  any  of  them,  and  possessing  far  more  than 
they  that  quality  for  which  John  Halifax  had  always  been  re- 
markable—dignity. True,  Nature  had  favored  him  beyond 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  343 

most  men,  giving  him  the  stately,  handsome  presence  befit- 
ting middle  age,  throwing  a  kind  of  apostolic  grace  over  the 
high,  half-bald  crown,  and  touching  with  a  softened  gray  the 
still  curly  locks  behind.  But  these  were  mere  accidents;  the 
true  dignity  lay  in  himself  and  his  own  personal  character, 
independent  of  a'ny  exterior. 

It  was  pleasant  to  watch  him,  and  note  how  advancing  years 
had  given  rather  than  taken  away  from  his  outward  mien. 
As  ever,  he  was  distinguishable  from  other  men,  even  to  his 
dress,  which  had  something  of  the  Quaker  about  it  still, 
and  its  sober  color,  its  rarely-changed  fashion,  and  its 
exceeding  neatness.  Mrs.  Halifax  used  now  and  then  to 
laugh  at  him  for  being  so  particular  over  his  daintiest  of 
cambric  and  finest  of  lawn,  but  secretly  she  took  the  greatest 
pride  in  his  appearance. 

"John  looks  well  to-night,"  she  said,  coming  in  and  sitting 
down  by  me,  her  eyes  following  mine.  One  would  not  have 
guessed  from  her  quiet  gaze  that  she  knew  what  John  had 
told  me  she  knew,  this  morning.  But  these  two  in  their  per- 
fect union  had  a  wonderful  strength — a  wonderful  fearless- 
ness. And  she  had  learned  from  him,  what  perhaps  originally 
was  foreign  to  her  impressible  and  sometimes  anxious  mind — 
that  steadfast  faith,  which,  while  ready  to  meet  every  ill  when 
the  time  comes,  until  the  time  waits  cheerfully,  and  will  not 
disquiet  itself  in  vain. 

Thus,  for  all  their  cares,  her  face  as  well  as  his  was  calm 
and  bright.  Bright,  even  with  the  prettiest  girlish  blush,  when 
John  came  to  his  wife  and  admired  her — as  indeed  was  not 
surprising. 

She  laughed  at  him,  and  declared  she  always  intended  to 
grow  lovely  in  her  old  age.  "I  thought  I  ought  to  dress  my- 
self grandly,  too,  on  Guy's  birthday.  Do  you  like  me,  John?'* 

"Very  much:  I  like  that  black  velvet  gown,  substantial,  soft 
and  rich,  without  any  show.  And  that  lace  frill  round  your 
throat — what  sort  of  lace  is  it?" 

"Valenciennes.  When  I  was  a  girl,  if  I  had  a  weakness,  it 
was  for  black  velvet  and  Valenciennes." 

John  smiled,  with  visible  pleasure  that  she  had  even  a 
"weakness"  gratified  now.  "And  you  have  put  on  my  brooch 
at  last,  I  see." 

"Yes;  but" — and  she  shook  her  head — "remember  your 
promise." 

"Phineas,  this  wife  of  mine  is  a  vain  woman.    She  knows 


344  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

her  own  price  is  'far  above  rubies' — or  diamonds  either.  No, 
Mrs.  Halifax,  be  not  afraid;  I  shall  give  you  no  more  jewels/' 
She  did  not  need  them.  She  stood  amid  her  three  sons 
with  the  smile  of  a  Cornelia.  She  felt  her  husband's  eyes  rest 
on  her,  with  that  quiet  perfectness  of  love,  better  than  any 
lover's  love — 

"The  fulness  of  a  stream  that  knew  no  fall" — 

the  love  of  a  husband  who  has  been  married  nearly  twenty- 
five  years. 

Here  a  troop  of  company  arrived,  and  John  left  me  to 
assume  his  duty  as  host. 

No  easy  duty,  as  I  soon  perceived;  for  times  were  hard,  and 
men's  minds  troubled.  Every  one,  except  the  light-heeled, 
light-hearted  youngsters,  looked  grave. 

Many  yet  alive  remember  this  year,  1825 — the  panic  year. 
War  having  ceased,  commerce,  in  its  worst  form,  started  into 
sudden  and  unhealthy  overgrowth.  Speculations  of  all  kinds 
sprung  up  like  fungi,  out  of  dead-wood,  flourished  a  little, 
and  dropped  away.  Then  came  ruin,  not  of  hundreds,  but  thou- 
sands, of  all  ranks  and  classes.  This  year,  and  this  month  in 
this  year,  the  breaking  of  many  established  firms,  especially 
bankers,  foretold  that  the  universal  crash  had  just  begun. 

It  was  felt  even  in  our  retired  country  neighborhood,  and 
among  our  friendly  guests  this  night,  both  gentle  and  simple 
— and  there  was  a  mixture  of  both  as  only  a  man  in  Mr.  Hali- 
fax's position  could  mix  such  heterogeneous  elements — towns- 
people and  country-people,  dissenters  and  church-folk,  pro- 
fessional men  and  men  of  business.  John  dared  to  do  it — and 
did  it.  But  though  through  his  own  personal  influence,  many 
of  different  ranks  whom  he  liked  and  respected,  meeting  in 
his  house,  learned  to  like  and  respect  one  another,  still,  even 
to-night,  he  could  not  remove  the  cloud  which  semed  to  hang 
over  all — a  cloud  so  heavy,  that  none  present  liked  referring 
to  it.  They  hit  upon  all  sorts  of  extraneous  subjects,  keeping 
far  aloof  from  the  one  which  evidently  pressed  upon  all  minds 
— the  universal  distress  abroad,  and  the  fear  that  was  knock- 
ing at  almost  every  man's  door  but  ours. 

Of  course,  the  talk  fell  on  our  neighbors — country  talk 
always  does.  I  sat  still,  listening  to  Sir  Herbert  Oldtower, 
who  was  wondering  that  Lord  Luxmore  suffered  the  hall  to 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  345 

drop  into  disgraceful  decay,  and  had  begun  cutting  down  the 
pine-woods  round  it. 

"Woods  older  than  his  title  by  many  a  century — down- 
right sacrilege!  And  the  property  being  entailed,  too — actual 
robbery  of  the  heir!  But  I  understand  anybody  may  do  any- 
thing with  Lord  Kavenel — a  mere  selfish,  cynical,  idle  volupt- 
uary!" 

"Indeed  you  are  mistaken,  Sir  Herbert!"  cried  Mr.  Jessop, 
of  Norton  Bury — a  very  honest  fellow  was  Josiah  Jessop. 
"He  banks  with  me — that  is,  there  are  some  poor  Catholics 
in  this  neighborhood  whom  I  pay — but  bless  me!  he  told  me 
not  to  tell.  No,  indeed.  Cynical  he  may  be;  idle,  perhaps — 
most  men  of  fashion  are — but  Lord  Ravenel  is  not  the  least 
like  his  father,  is  he,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"I  have  not  seen  Lord  Ravenel  for  many  years." 

And  as  if,  even  to  this  day,  the  mention  of  the  young  man's 
name  brought  back  thoughts  of  the  last  day  we  had  seen  him 
— a  day  which,  its  sadness  having  gone  by,  still  kept  its  un- 
spoken sacredness,  distinct  from  all  other  days — John  moved 
away  and  went  and  talked  to  a  girl  whom  both  he  and  the 
mother  liked  above  most  young  girls  we  knew — simple, 
sunny-faced  Grace  Oldtower. 

Dancing  began.  Spite  of  my  Quaker  education,  or  perhaps 
for  that  very  reason,  I  delighted  to  see  dancing.  Dancing, 
such  as  was  then,  when  young  folk  moved  breezily  and  light- 
ly, as  if  they  loved  it;  skimming  like  swallows  down  the  long 
lines  of  the  Triumph — gracefully  winding  in  and  out  through 
the  graceful  country  dance — lively  always,  but  always  decor- 
ous. In  those  days  people  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  the 
pleasures  of  dancing  that  any  stranger  should  have  liberty  to 
snatch  a  shy,  innocent  girl  round  the  waist,  and  whirl  her 
about  in  mad  waltz  or  awkward  polka,  till  she  stops,  giddy 
and  breathless,  with  burning  cheeks  and  tossed  hair,  looking 
— as  I  would  not  have  liked  to  see  our  pretty  Maud  look. 

No;  though  while  watching  the  little  lady  to-night,  I  was 
inclined  to  say  to  her: 

"When  you  do  dance,  I  wish  you 
A  wave  o'  the  sea,  that  you  might  ever  do 
Nothing  but  that." 

And  in  her  unwearied  spirits  she  seemed  as  if  she  would 
readily  have  responded  to  the  wish. 

We  did  not  see  Guy  among  the  dancers  who  were  now 


346  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

forming  in  a  somewhat  confused  square,  in  order  to  execute 
a  new  dance  called  quadrilles,  of  which  Miss  Grace  Oldtower 
was  to  be  the  instructress. 

"Where  is  Guy?"  said  the  mother,  who  would  have  missed 
him  among  a  room  full  of  people.  "Have  you  seen  Guy  any- 
where, Miss  Silver?" 

Miss  Silver,  who  sat  playing  tunes — she  had  declined  danc- 
ing— turned,  coloring  visibly. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  him;  he  is  in  the  study." 

"Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  fetch  him?" 

The  governess  rose  and  crossed  the  room  with  a  stately 
walk — statelier  than  usual.  Her  silk  gown,  of  some  rich  soft 
color,  fashioned  after  Mrs.  .Halifax's  taste,  and  the  chaplet  of 
bay-leaves,  which  Maud  had  insisted  upon  putting  in  her  dark 
hair,  made  an  astonishing  change  in  Miss  Silver.  I  could  not 
help  noticing  it  to  Mrs.  Halifax. 

"Yes,  indeed,  she  looks  well.  John  says  her  features  are 
fine;  but,  for  my  part,  I  don't  care  for  your  statuesque  faces; 
I  like  color — expression.  See  that  bright  little  Grace  Old- 
tower — a  thoroughly  English  rose;  I  like  her.  Poor  Miss 
Silver!  I  wish " 

What,  out  of  compunction  for  a  certain  sharpness  with 
which  she  had  spoken,  Mrs.  Halifax  was  about  to  wish,  re- 
mained undeclared.  For  just  at  this  minute  Guy  entered,  and 
leaning  his  handsome  head  and  his  tender  petits  soins  over 
the  "English  rose,"  as  his  mother  called  her,  led  her  out  to 
the  dancing. 

We  sat  down  and  looked  on. 

"Guy  dances  lazily;  he  is  rather  pale  too,  I  fancy." 

"Tired,  probably.  He  was  out  far  too  long  on  the  ice  to- 
day with  Maud  and  Miss  Silver.  What  a  pretty  creature  his 
partner  is!"  added  Ursula,  thoughtfully. 

"The  children  are  growing  up  fast,"  I  said. 

"Ay,  indeed.  To  think  that  Guy  is  actually  twenty-one — 
the  age  when  his  father  was  married!" 

"Guy  will  be  reminding  you  of  that  fact  some  day  soon." 

Mrs.  Halifax  smiled.  "The  sooner  the  better,  if  only  he 
makes  a  worthy  choice — if  only  he  brings  me  a  daughter 
whom  I  can  love." 

And  I  fancied  there  was  love — motherly  love — in  the  eyes 
that  followed  through  the  graceful  mazes  of  her  dancing  the 
bonny  English  rose. 

Guy  and  his  partner  sat  down  beside  us.     His  mother 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  347 

noticed  that  he  had  turned  very  pale  again,  and  the  lad 
owned  to  be  in  some  pain;  he  had  twisted  his  foot  that  morn- 
ing in  helping  Maud  and  Miss  Silver  across  the  ice;  but  it 
was  a  mere  trifle — not  worth  mentioning. 

It  passed  over,  with  one  or  two  anxious  inquiries  on  the 
mother's  part,  and  a  soft,  dewy  shadow  over  the  down-dropped 
cheek  of  the  little  Rose,  who  evidently  did  not  like  to  think 
of  any  harm  coming  to  her  old  playfellow.  Then  Sir  Herbert 
appeared  to  lead  Mrs.  Halifax  in  to  supper,  Guy  limped  along 
with  pretty  Grace  on  his  arm,  and  all  the  guests,  just  enough 
co  fill  our  longest  table  in  John's  study,  came  thronging  round 
in  a  buzz  of  mirthf  ulness. 

Either  the  warm,  hospitable  atmosphere,  or  the  sight  of 
the  merry  youngsters,  or  the  general  influence  of  social  pleas- 
antness, had  for  the  time  being  dispelled  the  cloud.  But  cer- 
tainly it  was  dispelled.  The  master  of  the  feast  looked  down 
two  long  lines  of  happy  faces — his  own  as  bright  as  theirs — 
down  to  where,  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  the  mother  and  mis- 
tress sat.  She  had  been  slightly  nervous  at  times  during  the 
evening,  but  now  she  appeared  thoroughly  at  ease  and  glad — 
glad  to  see  her  husband  take  his  place  at  the  head  of  his  own 
hospitable  board,  in  the  midst  of  his  own  friends  and  his  own 
people,  honored  and  beloved.  It  seemed  a  good  omen — an 
omen  that  the  bitter  things  outside  would  pass  away. 

How  bitter  they  had  been,  and  how  sore  the  wife's  heart 
still  felt,  I  could  see  from  the  jealous  way  in  which,  smiling 
and  cheerful  as  her  demeanor  was,  she  caught  every  look, 
every  word  of  those  around  her,  which  might  chance  to  bear 
reference  to  her  husband;  in  her  quick  avoidance  of  every 
topic  connected  with  these  disastrous  times,  and,  above  all, 
in  her  hurried  grasp  of  a  newspaper  that  some  careless  serv- 
ant brought  in  fresh  from  the  night-mail,  wet  with  sleet  and 
snow. 

"Do  you  get  your  country  paper  regularly?"  asked  some 
one  at  the  table.  And  then  some  others  appeared  to  recollect 
the  Norton  Bury  Mercury,  and  its  virulent  attacks  on  their 
host — for  there  ensued  an  awkward  pause,  during  which  I  saw 
Ursula's  face  beginning  to  burn.  But  she  conquered  her 
wrath. 

"There  is  often  much  interest  in  our  provincial  papers.  Sir 
Herbert.  My  husband  makes  a  point  of  taking  them  all  in — 
bad  and  good — of  every  shade  of  politics.  He  believes  it  is 


348  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

only  by  hearing  all  sides  that  you  can  truly  judge  of  the  state 
of  the  country." 

"Just  as  a  physician  must  hear  all  symptoms  before  he  de- 
cides on  the  patient's  case.  At  least,  so  our  good  old  friend 
Dr.  Jessop  used  to  say." 

"Eh?"  said  Mr.  Jessop,  the  banker,  catching  his  own  nairn-. 
and  waking  up  from  a  brown-study,  in  which  he  had  seemed 
to  see  nothing — except,  perhaps,  the  newspaper,  which,  in  its 
printed  cover,  lay  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Halifax.  "Eh? 
did  any  one Oh,  I  beg  pardon — beg  pardon — Sir  Her- 
bert," hastily  added  the  old  man,  who  was  a  very  meek  and 
worthy  soul,  and  had  been,  perhaps,  more  subdued  than  usual 
this  evening. 

"I  was  referring,"  said  Sir  Herbert,  with  his  usual  pon- 
derous civility,  "to  your  excellent  brother,  who  was  so  much 
respected  among  us — for  which  respect,  allow  me  to  say,  he 
did  not  leave  us  without  an  inheritor." 

The  old  banker  answered  the  formal  bow  with  a  kind  of 
nervous  hurry;  and  then  Sir  Herbert,  with  a  loud  premise 
of  his  right  as  the  oldest  friend  of  our  family,  tried  to  ob- 
tain silence  for  the  customary  speech,  prefatory  to  the  cus- 
tomary toast  of  "Health  and  prosperity  to  the  heir  of  Beech- 
wood." 

There  was  great  applause  and  filling  of  glasses;  great 
smiling  and  whispering;  everybody  glanced  at  poor  Guy,  who 
turned  red  and  white,  and  evidently  wished  himself  a  hundred 
miles  off.  In  the  confusion,  I  felt  my  sleeve  touched,  and 
saw  leaning  toward  me,  hidden  by  Maud's  laughing,  happy 
face,  the  old  banker.  He  held  in  his  hand  the  newspaper, 
which  seemed  to  have  so  fascinated  him. 

"It's  the  London  Gazette.  Mr.  Halifax  gets  it  three  hours 
before  any  of  us.  I  may  open  it?  It  is  important  to  me.  Mrs. 
Halifax  would  excuse,  eh?" 

Of  course  she  would.  Especially  if  she  had  seen  the  old 
man's  look,  as  his  trembling  fingers  vainly  tried  to  unfold  the 
sheet  without  a  single  rustle's  betraying  his  surreptitious 
curiosity. 

Sir  Herbert  rose,  cleared  his  throat,  and  began. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  speak  as  a  father  myself,  and  as 
the  son  of  a  father  whom — whom  I  will  not  refer  to  here,  ex- 
cept to  say  that  his  good  heart  would  have  rejoiced  to  see  this 
day.  The  high  esteem  in  which  Sir  Ralph  always  held  Mr. 
Halifax  has  descended,  and  will  descend " 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  349 

Here  some  one  called  out, 

"Mr.  Jessop!    Look  at  Mr.  Jessop!" 

The  old  man  had  suddenly  sunk  back  with  a  sort  of  chok- 
ing groan.  His  eyes  were  staring  blankly,  his  cheek  was  the 
color  of  ashes.  But  when  he  saw  every  one  looking  at  him, 
he  tried  desperately  to  recover  himself. 

"  "Pis  nothing.  Nothing  of  the  slightest  moment.  Eh?" 
clutching  tightly  at  the  paper  which  Mrs.  Halifax  was  kindly 
removing  out  of  his  hand.  "There's  no  news  in  it — none,  I 
assure  you." 

But  from  his  agitation — from  the  pitiful  effort  he  made 
to  disguise  it — it  was  plain  enough  that  there  was  news. 
Plain,  also,  as  in  these  dangerous  and  critical  times  men  were 
only  too  quick  to  divine  in  what  that  news  consisted.  Tid- 
ings which  now  made  every  newspaper  a  sight  of  fear — 
especially  this — the  London  Gazette. 

Edwin  caught  and  read  the  fatal  page — the  fatal  column — 
known  only  too  well. 

"W 's  have  stopped  payment." 

W 's  was  a  great  London  house,  the  favorite  banking- 
house  in  our  county,  with  which  many  provincial  banks,  and 
Jessop's  especially,  were  widely  connected,  and  would  be  no 
one  knew  how  widely  involved. 

"W 's  stopped  payment!" 

A  murmur — a  hush  of  momentary  suspense,  as  the  Gazette 
was  passed  hurriedly  from  hand  to  hand;  and  then  our  guests, 
one  and  all,  sat  looking  at  one  another  in  breathless  fear,  sus- 
picion, or  assured  dismay.  For,  as  every  one  was  aware  (we 
knew  our  neighbors'  affairs  so  well  about  innocent  Enderley), 
there  was  not  a  single  household  of  that  merry  little  company 
upon  whom,  near  or  remote,  the  blow  would  not  fall — except 
ours. 

No  polite  disguise  could  gloss  over  the  general  consterna- 
tion. Few  thought  of  Jessop — only  of  themselves.  Many  a 
father  turned  pale;  many  a  mother  melted  into  smothered 
tears.  More  than  one  honest  countenance  that  five  minutes 
before  had  beamed  like  the  rising  sun,  all  friendliness  and 
jocularity,  I  saw  shrink  into  a  wizened,  worldly  face,  with 
greedy  selfishness  peering  out  of  the  corners  of  its  eyes,  eager 
to  conceal  its  own  alarms,  and  dive  as  far  as  possible  into  the 
terrors  of  its  neighbors. 

"There  will  be  a  run  on  Jessop's  bank  to-morrow,"  I  heard 
one  person  say,  glancing  to  where  the  poor  old  banker  still  sat, 


860  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

with  a  vacant,  stupefied  smile,  assuring  all  around  him  that 
"nothing  had  happened;  really  nothing." 

"A  run?  I  suppose  so.  Then  it  will  be  'Sauve  qui  peut,' 
and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost." 

"What  say  you  to  all  this,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

John  still  kept  his  place.  He  sat  perfectly  quiet,  and  had 
never  spoken  a  syllable. 

When  Sir  Herbert,  who  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the 
shock  of  these  ill-tidings,  called  him  by  his  name,  Mr.  Hali- 
fax looked  quickly  up.  It  was  to  see,  instead  of  those  two 
lines  of  happy  faces,  faces  already  gathering  in  troubled 
groups,  faces  angry,  sullen,  or  miserable,  all  of  which,  with  a 
vague  distrust,  seemed  instinctively  turned  upon  him. 

"Mr.  Halifax,"  said  the  baronet — and  one  could  see  how, 
in  spite  of  his  steadfast  politeness,  he  too  was  not  without 
his  anxieties — "this  is  an  unpleasant  breaking-in  upon  your 
kindly  hospitalities.  I  suppose  through  this  unpropitious 
event,  each  of  us  must  make  up  our  minds  to  some  loss.  Let 
me  hope  yours  will  be  trifling." 

John  made  no  answer. 

"Or,  perhaps — though  I  can  hardly  hope  anything  so  for- 
tunate— perhaps  this  failure  will  not  affect  you  at  all?" 

He  waited,  as  did  many  others,  for  Mr.  Halifax's  reply; 
which  was  long  in  coming.  However,  since  all  seemed  to  ex- 
pect it,  it  did  come  at  last;  but  grave  and  sad,  as  if  it  were  the 
announcement  of  some  great  misfortune. 

"No,  Sir  Herbert;  it  will  not  affect  me  at  all." 

Sir  Herbert,  and  not  he  alone,  looked  surprised — uneasily 
surprised.  Some  mutters  there  were  of  "congratulation." 
Then  arose  a  troubled  murmur  of  talking,  in  which  the  master 
of  the  house  was  forgotten;  until  the  baronet  said,  "My  friends, 
I  think  we  are  forgetting  our  courtesy.  Allow  me  to  give 
you,  without  more  delay,  the  toast  I  was  about  to  propose — 
'Health,  long  life  and  happiness  to  Mr.  Guy  Halifax.' " 

And  so  poor  Guy's  birthday  toast  was  drunk,  almost  in 
silence;  and  the  few  words  he  said  in  acknowledgment  were 
just  listened  to,  scarcely  heard.  Every  one  rose  from  table, 
and  the  festivities  were  over. 

One  by  one  all  our  guests  began  to  make  excuse.  One  by 
one,  involuntarily  perhaps,  yet  not  the  less  painfully  and 
plainly  they  all  shrunk  away  from  us,  as  if  in  the  universal 
trouble  we,  who  had  nothing  to  fear,  had  no  part  nor  lot. 
Formal  congratulations,  given  with  pale  lips  and  wandering 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  351 

eyes;  brusque  adieus,  as  some  of  the  more  honest  or  less 
courteous  showed,  but  too  obviously  how  cruelly,  even  resent- 
fully, they  felt  the  inequalities  of  fortune;  hasty  departures, 
full  of  dismay  that  rejected  angrily  every  shadow  of  consola- 
tion— all  things  John  had  to  meet  and  to  bear. 

He  met  them  with  composure;  scarcely  speaking  a  word,  as 
indeed  what  was  there  to  say?  To  all  the  friendly  speeches, 
real  or  pretended,  he  listened  with  a  kind  of  sad  gravity:  of 
all  harsher  words  than  these — and  there  were  not  a  few — he 
took  not  the  least  notice,  but  held  his  place  as  master  of  the 
house;  generously  deaf  and  blind  to  everything  that  it  were  as 
well  the  master  of  the  house  should  neither  hear  nor  see. 

At  last  he  was  left,  a  very  Pariah  of  prosperity  by  his  own 
hearth,  quite  alone. 

The  last  carriage  had  rolled  away;  the  tired  household  had 
gone  to  bed;  there  was  not  one  in  the  study  but  me.  John 
came  in  and  stood  leaning  with  both  his  arms  against  the  fire- 
place, motionless  and  silent.  He  leaned  there  so  long  that  at 
last  I  touched  him. 

"Well,  Phineas!" 

I  saw  this  night's  events  had  wounded  him  to  the  core. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  these  honest,  friendly,  disinterested 
guests  of  ours.  Don't!  They  are  not  worth  a  single  thought." 

"Not  an  angry  thought,  certainly."  And  he  smiled  at  my 
wrath — a  sad  smile. 

"Ah,  Phineas!  now  I  begin  to  understand  what  is  meant  by 
the  curse  of  prosperity." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  great,  eager,  but  doggedly-quiet  crowd,  of  which  each  had 
his  or  her — for  it  was  half  women — individual  terror  to  hide, 
his  or  her  individual  interest  to  fight  for,  and  cared  not  a  straw 
for  that  of  any  one  else. 

It  was  market-day,  and  this  crowd  was  collected  and  collect- 
ing every  minute  before  the  bank  at  Norton  Bury.  It  includ- 
ed all  classes,  from  the  stout  farmer's  wife,  or  market-woman, 
to  the  pale,  frightened  lady  of  "limited  income"  who  had 
never  been  in  such  a  throng  before;  from  the  aproned  mechan- 
ic, to  the  gentleman  who  sat  in  his  carriage  at  the  street  cor- 
ner, confident  that  whatever  poor  chance  there  was,  his  would 
be  the  best. 


352  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Everybody  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely  quiet.  You  heard 
none  of  the  jokes  that  always  rise  in  and  circulate  through  a 
crowd;  none  of  the  loud  outcries  of  a  mob.  All  were  intent 
on  themselves  and  their  own  business;  on  that  fast-bolted  red- 
baize  door,  and  on  the  green  blind  of  the  windows,  which 
informed  them  that  it  was  "open  from  ten  till  four." 

The  Abbey  clock  struck  three-quarters.  Then  there  was  a 
slight  stirring,  a  rustling  here  and  there  of  paper  as  some  one 
drew  out  and  examined  his  bank-notes  openly,  with  small  f ear 
of  theft — they  were  not  worth  stealing. 

John  and  I,  a  little  way  off,  stood  looking  on,  where  we  had 
once  watched  a  far  different  crowd;  for  Mr.  Jessop  owned  the 
doctor's  former  house,  and  in  sight  of  the  green  bank  blinds 
were  my  dear  old  father's  known  windows, 

Guy's  birthday  had  fallen  on  a  Saturday.  This  was  Mon- 
day morning.  We  had  driven  over  to  Norton  Bury,  John  and 
I,  at  an  unusually  early  hour.  He  did  not  exactly  tell  me 
why,  but  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess.  Not  difficult  to  per- 
ceive how  strongly  he  was  interested,  even  affected — as  any 
man,  knowing  all  the  circumstances,  could  not  but  be  affected 
— by  the  sight  of  that  crowd,  all  the  sadder  for  its  being  such 
a  patient,  decent,  respectable  crowd,  out  of  which  so  large  a 
proportion  was  women. 

I  noticed  this  latter  fact  to  John. 

"Yes,  I  was  sure  it  -would  be  so.  Jessop's  bank  has  such  a 
number  of  small  depositors,  and  issues  so  many  small  notes. 
He  cannot  cash  above  half  of  them  without  some  notice.  If 
there  comes  a  run,  he  may  have  to  stop  payment  this  very  day; 
and  then,  how  wide  the  misery  would  spread  among  the  poor, 
God  knows." 

His  eye  wandered  pitifully  over  the  heaving  mass  of  anxious 
faces,  blue  with  cold,  and  growing  more  and  more  despondent 
as  every  minute  they  turned  with  a  common  impulse  from  the 
closed  bank  door  to  the  Abbey  clock,  glittering  far  up  in  the 
sunshiny  atmosphere  of  morning. 

Its  finger  touched  the  one  heel  of  the  great  striding  X— 
glided  on  to  the  other — the  ten  strokes  fell  leisurely  and  regu- 
larly upon  the  clear,  frosty  air;  then  the  chimes — Norton  Bury 
was  proud  of  its  Abbey  chimes — burst  out  in  the  tune  of 
<rLife  let  us  cherish." 

The  bells  went  through  all  the  tune  to  the  very  last  note; 
then  ensued  silence.  The  crowd  was  silent,  too — almost 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  353 

breathless  with  intent  listening,  but  alas!  not  to  the  merry  Ab- 
bey chimes. 

The  bank  door  remained  closed — not  a  rattle  at  the  bolts, 
not  a  clerk's  face  peering  out  above  the  blind.  The  house  was 
as  shut  up  and  desolate  as  if  it  were  entirely  empty. 

Five  whole  minutes,  by  the  Abbey  clock,  did  that  poor,  pa- 
tient crowd  wait  on  the  pavement.  Then  a  murmur  arose. 
One  or  two  men  hammered  at  the  door;  some  frightened  wo- 
men, jostled  in  the  press,  began  to  scream. 

John  could  bear  it  no  longer.  "Come  along  with  me,"  he 
said,  hurriedly.  "I  must  see  Jessop — we  can  get  in  at  the 
garden  door." 

This  was  a  little  gate  round  the  corner  of  the  street,  well 
known  to  us  both  in  those  brief  "courting  days,"  when  we 
came  to  tea  of  evenings  and  found  Mrs.  Jessop  and  Ursula 
March  in  the  garden  watering  the  plants  and  tying  up  the 
roses.  Nay,  we  passed  out  of  it  into  the  same  summer  parlor, 
where — I  cannot  tell  if  John  ever  knew  of  the  incident,  at  all 
events  he  never  mentioned  it  to  me — there  had  been  transacted 
a  certain  momentous  event  in  Ursula's  life  and  mine.  Enter- 
ing by  the  French  window,  there  rose  up  to  my  mental  vision, 
in  vivid  contrast  to  all  present  scenes,  the  picture  of  a  young 
girl  I  had  once  seen  sitting  there,  with  head  drooped,  knitting. 
Could  that  day  be  twenty-five  years  ago? 

No  summer  parlor  now — its  atmosphere  was  totally 
changed.  It  was  a  dull,  dusty  room,  of  which  the  only  lively 
object  was  a  large  fire,  the  under  half  of  which  had  burned 
itself  away  unstirred  into  black  dingy  caverns.  Before  it, 
with  breakfast  untasted,  sat  Josiah  Jessop,  his  feet  on  the  fen- 
der, his  elbows  on  his  knees,  the  picture  qf  despair. 

"Mr.  Jessop,  my  good  friend!" 

"No,  I  haven't  a  friend  in  the  world,  or  shall  not  have,  an 
hour  hence.  Oh!  it's  you,  Mr.  Halifax!  You  have  not  an  ac- 
count to  close?  You  don't  hold  any  notes  of  mine,  do  you?" 

John  put  his  hand  on  the  old  man's  shoulder,  and  repeated 
that  lie  only  came  as  a  friend. 

"Not  the  first  'friend'  I  have  received  this  morning.  I 
knew  I  should  be  early  honored  with  visitors;"  and  the  banker 
attempted  a.  dreary  smile.  ''Sir  Herbert  and  half  a  dozen 
more  are  waiting  for  me  upstairs.  The  biggest  fish  must  have 
the  first  bite — eh,  you  know?" 

"I  know,"  said  John,  gloomily. 

"Hark!  those  people  outside  will  hammer  my  door  down! 

23 


354  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Speak  to  them,  Mr.  Halifax — tell  them  I'm  an  old  man — that 
I  was  always  an  honest  man — always.  If  only  they  would  give 
me  time — hark!  just  hark!  Heaven  help  me!  do  they  want  to 
tear  me  in  pieces?" 

John  went  out  for  a  few  moments,  then  came  back  and  sat 
down  beside  Mr.  Jessop. 

"Compose  yourself" — the  old  man  was  shaking  like  an  as- 
pen leaf.  "Tell  me,  if  you  have  no  objection  to  give  me  this 
confidence,  exactly  how  your  affairs  stand." 

With  a  gasp  of  helpless  thankfulness,  looking  up  in  John's 
face,  while  his  own  quivered  like  a  frightened  child's,  the 
banker  obeyed.  It  seemed  that  great  as  was  his  loss  by 

W 's  failure,  it  was  not  absolute  ruin  to  him.  In  effect, 

he  was  at  this  moment  perfectly  solvent,  and  by  calling  in 
mortgages,  etc.,  could  meet  both  the  accounts  of  the  gentry 
who  banked  with  him,  together  with  all  his  own  notes  now 
afloat  in  the  county,  principally  among  the  humbler  ranks, 
petty  tradespeople,  and  such-like — if  only  both  classes  of  cus- 
tomers would  give  him  time  to  pay  them. 

"But  they  will  not.  There  will  be  a  run  upon  the  bank, 
and  then  all's  over  with  me.  It's  a  hard  case — solvent  as  I 
am — ready  and  able  to  pay  every  farthing — if  only  I  had  a 
week's  time.  As  it  is,  I  must  stop  payment  to-day.  Hark! 
they  are  at  the  door!  Mr.  Halifax,  for  God's  sake,  quiet 
them!" 

"I  will;  only  tell  me  first  what  sum,  added  to  the  cash  you 
have  available,  would  keep  the  bank  open — just  for  a  day  or 
two." 

At  once  guided  and  calmed,  the  old  man's  business  faculties 
seemed  to  return.  He  began  to  calculate,  and  soon  stated  the 
sum  he  needed;  I  think  it  was  three  or  four  thousand  pounds. 

"Very  well;  I  have  thought  of  a  plan.  But  first — those 
poor  fellows  outside.  Thank  Heaven,  I  am  a  rich  man,  and 
everybody  knows  it.  Phineas,  that  inkstand,  please." 

He  sat  down  and  wrote;  curiously  the  attitude  and  manner 
reminded  me  of  his  sitting  down  and  writing  at  my  father's 
table  after  the  bread  riot — years  and  years  ago.  Soon,  a  no- 
tice signed  by  Josiah  Jessop,  and  afterward  by  himself,  to  the 
effect  that  the  bank  would  open,  "without  fail,"  at  one  o'clock 
this  day,  was  given  by  John  to  the  astonished  clerk,  to  be  post- 
ed at  the  window. 

A  responsive  cheer  outside  showed  how  readily  those  out- 
side had  caught  at  even  this  gleam  of  hope.  Also,  how  im- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  355 

plicitly  they  trusted  in  the  mere  name  of  a  gentleman  who  all 
over  the  county  was  known  for  "his  word  being  as  good  as  his 
bond" — John  Halifax. 

The  banker  breathed  freer;  but  his  respite  was  short;  an 
imperative  message  came  from  the  gentlemen  above  stairs,  de- 
siring his  presence.  With  a  kind  of  blind  dependence,  he 
looked  toward  John. 

"Let  me  go  in  your  stead.  You  can  trust  me  to  manage 
matters  to  the  best  of  my  power?" 

The  banker  overwhelmed  him  with  gratitude. 

"Nay,  that  ought  to  be  my  word,  standing  in  this  house, 

and  remembering "  His  eyes  turned  to  the  two  portraits 

— grim-colored  daubs,  yet  with  a  certain  apology  of  likeness, 
too,  which  broadly  smiled  at  one  another  from  opposite  walls 
— the  only  memorials  now  remaining  of  the  good  doctor  and 
his  cheery  little  old  wife.  "Come,  Mr.  Jessop,  leave  the  mat- 
ter with  me;  believe  me,  it  is  not  only  a  pleasure,  but  a  duty/' 

The  old  man  melted  into  senile  tears. 

I  do  not  know  how  John  managed  the  provincial  magnates, 
who  were  sitting  in  council  considering  how  best  to  save,  first 
themselves,  then  the  bank,  lastly.  If  the  poor  public  outside 
had  been  made  acquainted  with  that  ominous  "lastly!"  Or  if 
to  the  respectable  conclave  above  stairs,  who  would  have  re- 
coiled indignantly  at  the  vulgar  word  "jobbing,"  had  been 
hinted  a  phrase — which  ran  oddly  in  and  out  of  the  nooks  of 
my  brain,  keeping  time  to  the  murmur  in  the  street,  "Vox 
populi,  vox  Dei" — truly  I  should  have  got  little  credit  for  my 
Latinity. 

John  came  out  in  about  half  an  hour,  with  a  cheerful  coun- 
tenance; told  me  he  was  going  over  to  Coltham  for  an  hour  or 
two — would  I  wait  his  return  ? 

"And  all  is  settled?"  I  asked. 

"Will  be  soon,  I  trust.  I  can't  stay  to  tell  you  more  now. 
Good-bye." 

I  was  no  man  of  business,  and  I  could  assist  in  nothing.  So 
I  thought  the  best  I  could  do  was  to  pass  the  time  in  wander- 
ing up  and  down  the  familiar  garden,  idly  watching  the  hoar- 
frost on  the  arbutus  leaves,  and  on  the  dry  stems  of  what  had 
been  dear  little  Mrs.  Jessop's  favorite  roses — the  same  roses  I 
had  seen  her  among  on  that  momentous  evening — the  even- 
ing when  Ursula's  bent  neck  flushed  more  crimson  than  the 
sunset  itself,  as  I  told  her  John  Halifax  was  "too  noble  to  die 
for  any  woman's  love." 


356  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

No,  he  had  lived  for  it,  earned  it,  won  it.  And  musing 
over  these  long-ago  times,  my  heart  melted — foolish  old  heart 
that  it  was — with  a  trembling  joy  to  think  that  Providence 
had  in  some  way  used  my  poor  useless  hand  to  give  to  him  this 
blessing,  a  man's  chiefest  blessing  of  a  virtuous  and  loving 
wife,  which  had  crowned  his  life  for  all  these  wonderful  years. 

As  it  neared  one  o'clock  I  could  see  my  ancient  friend  the 
Abbey  clock,  with  not  a  wrinkle  in  his  old  face,  staring  at  me 
through  the  bare  Abbey  trees.  I  began  to  feel  rather  anxious. 
I  went  into  the  deserted  office,  and  thence,  none  forbidding, 
ensconced  myself  behind  the  sheltering  bank  blinds. 

The  crowd  had  scarcely  moved;  a  very  honest,  patient,  weary 
crowd,  dense  in  the  center,  thinning  toward  the  edges.  On 
its  extreme  verge,  waiting  in  a  curricle,  was  a  gentleman,  who 
seemed  observing  it  with  a  lazy  curiosity.  I,  having  like  him- 
self apparently  nothing  better  to  do,  observed  this  gentleman. 

He  was  dressed  in  the  height  of  the  mode,  combined  with  a 
novel  and  eccentric  fashion,  which  had  been  lately  set  by  that 
extraordinary  young  nobleman  whom  everybody  talked  about 
— my  Lord  Byron.  His  neckcloth  was  loose,  his  throat  bare, 
and  his  hair  fell  long  and  untidy.  His  face,  that  of  a  man 
about  thirty — I  fancied  I  had  seen  it  before,  but  could  not  re- 
call where — was  delicate,  thin,  with  an  expression  at  once 
cynical  and  melancholy.  He  sat  in  his  carriage,  wrapped  in 
furs,  or  looked  carelessly  out  on  the  scene  before  him,  as  if 
lie  had  no  interest  therein — as  if  there  was  nothing  in  life 
worth  living  for. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  I  to  myself,  recalling  the  bright,  busy, 
laughing  faces  of  our  gro wing-up  lads,  recalling  especially 
their  father's — full  of  all  that  active  energy  and  wise  cheerful- 
ness which  gives  zest  to  existence;  God  forbid  any  man  should 
die  till  he  has  lived  to  learn  it! — "poor  fellow!  I  wish  his 
moodiness  could  take  a  lesson  from  us  at  home!" 

But  the  gentleman  soon  retired  from  my  observation  under 
his  furs!  for  the  sky  had  gloomed  over,  and  snow  began  to  fall. 
.Those  on  the  pavement  shook  it  drearily  off,  and  kept  turning 
every  minute  to  the  Abbey  clock.  I  feared  it  would  take  the 
patience  of  Job  to  enable  them  to  hold  out  another  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

At  length  some  determined  hand  again  battered  at  the  door. 

I  fancied  I  heard  a  clerk  speaking  out  of  the  first  floor  win- 
dow. 

"Gentlemen" — how  tremblingly  polite  the   voice 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  357 

"Gentlemen,  in  five  minutes — positively  five  minutes — the 
bank  will " 

The  rest  of  the  speech  was  drowned  and  lost.  Dashing 
"round  the  street  corner,  the  horses  all  in  a  foam,  came  our 
Beech  wood  carriage.  Mr.  Halifax  leaped  out. 

Well  might  the  crowd  divide  for  him — well  might  they 
cheer  him.  For  he  carried  a  canvas  bag — a  great,  ugly,  grim- 
ly-colored bag — a  precious,  precious  bag,  with  the  consolation 
— perhaps  the  life — of  hundreds  in  it! 

I  knew,  almost  by  intuition,  what  he  had  done — what,  in 
one  or  two  instances,  was  afterward  done  by  other  rich  and 
generous  Englishmen,  during  the  crisis  of  this  year. 

The  bank  door  flew  open  like  magic.  The  crowd  came 
pushing  in;  but  when  John  called  out  to  them,  "Good  people, 
pray  let  me  pass,"  they  yielded  and  suffered  him  to  go  in  first. 
Pie  went  right  up  to  the  desk,  behind  which,  flanked  by  a  tol- 
erable array  of  similar  canvas  bags,  full  of  gold — but  never- 
theless waiting  in  mortal  fear,  and  as  white  as  his  own  neck- 
cloth— the  old  banker  stood. 

"Mr.  Jessop,"  John  said,  in  a  loud,  distinct  voice,  that  all 
might  hear  him,  "I  have  the  pleasure  to  open  an  account  with 
you.  I  feel  satisfied  that  in  these  dangerous  times  no  credit  is 
more  safe  than  yours.  Allow  me  to  pay  in  to-day  the  sum  of 
five  thousand  pounds." 

"Five  thousand  pounds!" 

The  rumor  of  it  was  repeated  from  mouth  to  mouth.  In  a 
small  provincial  bank,  such  a  sum  seemed  unlimited.  It  gave 
universal  confidence.  Many  who  had  been  scrambling,  swear- 
ing, almost  fighting,  to  reach  the  counter  and  receive  gold  for 
their  notes,  put  them  again  into  their  pockets  uncashed.  Oth- 
ers, chiefly  women,  got  them  cashed  with  a  trembling  hand; 
nay,  with  tears  of  joy.  A  few  who  had  come  to  close  accounts 
changed  their  minds,  and  even  paid  money  in.  All  were  sat- 
isfied; the  run  upon  the  bank  ceased. 

Mr.  Halifax  stood  aside,  looking  on.  After  the  first  mur- 
mur of  surprise  and  pleasure,  no  one  seemed  to  take  any  notice 
of  him,  or  of  what  he  had  done.  Only  one  old  widow  woman, 
as  she  slipped  three  bright  guineas  under  the  lid  of  her  market 
basket,  dropped  him  a  courtesy  in  passing  by. 

"It's  your  doing,  Mr.  Halifax.     The  Lord  reward  you,  sir." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  shook  her  by  tke  hand.  1 
thought  to  myself,  watching  the  many  that  came  and  went, 
unmindful  "only  this  Samaritan!" 


358  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

No — one  person  more,  standing  by,  addressed  him  by  name. 
"This  is  indeed  your  doing,  and  an  act  of  benevolence  which  I 
believe  no  man  alive  would  have  done  except  Mr.  Halifax." 
And  the  gentleman  who  spoke — the  same  I  had  seen  outside 
in  his  curricle — held  out  a  friendly  hand." 

"I  see  you  do  not  remember  me.     My  name  is  Ravenel." 

"Lord  Ravenel!" 

John  uttered  this  exclamation  and  no  more.  I  saw  that 
this  sudden  meeting  had  brought  back,  with  a  cruel  tide  of 
memory,  the  last  time  they  met — by  the  small  nursery  bed  in 
that  upper  chamber  at  Enderley. 

However,  this  feeling  shortly  passed  away,  as  must  needs  be; 
and  we  all  three  began  to  converse  together. 

While  he  talked  something  of  the  old  "Anselmo"  came  back 
into  Lord  Ravenel's  face;  especially  when  John  asked  him  if 
he  would  drive  over  with  us  to  Enderley. 

"Enderley — how  strange  the  word  sounds — yet  I  should  like 
to  see  the  place  again.  Poor  old  Enderley!" 

Irresolutely — all  his  gestures  seemed  dreamy  and  irresolute 
— he  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes — the  same  white,  long-fin- 
gered, womanish  hand  which  had  used  to  guide  Muriel's  over 
the  organ  keys. 

"Yes;  I  think  I  will  go  back  with  you  to  Enderley.  But 
first  I  must  speak  to  Mr.  Jessop  here." 

It  was  about  some  poor  Catholic  families,  who,  as  we  had 
before  learned,  had  long  been  his  pensioners. 

"You  are  a  Catholic  still,  then?"  I  asked.  "We  heard  the 
contrary." 

"Did  you?  Oh,  of  course.  One  hears  such  wonderful  facts 
about  one's  self.  Probably  you  heard  also  that  I  have  been 
to  the  Holy  Land  and  turned  Jew — called  at  Constantinople, 
and  come  back  a  Mohammedan." 

"But  are  you  of  your  old  faith?"  John  said.  "Still  a  sin- 
cere Catholic?" 

"If  you  take  Catholic  in  its  original  sense,  certainly.  I  am 
a  Universalist.  I  believe  everything — and  nothing.  Let  us 
change  the  subject."  The  contemptuous  scepticism  of  his 
manner  altered,  as  he  inquired  after  Mrs.  Halifax  and  the 
children.  "No  longer  children  now,  I  suppose?" 

"Scarcely.  Guy  and  Walter  are  as  tall  as  yourself;  and  my 
daughter " 

"Your  daughter?" — with  a  start — "oh,  yes,  I  recollect.  Baby 
Maud.  Is  she  at  all  like — like " 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  369 

"No." 

Neither  said  more  than  this;  but  it  seemed  as  if  their  hearts 
warmed  to  one  another,  knitted  by  the  same  tender  remem- 
brance. 

We  drove  home.  Lord  Eavenel  muffled  himself  up  in  his 
furs,  complaining  bitterly  of  the  snow  and  sleet. 

"Yes,  the  winter  is  setting  in  sharply,"  John  replied,  as  he 
reined  in  his  horses  at  the  turnpike  gate.  "This  will  be  a 
hard  Christmas  for  many." 

"Ay,  indeed,  sir,"  said  the  gate-keeper,  touching  his  hat. 
"And  if  I  might  make  so  bold — it's  a  dark  night,  and  the 
road's  lonely" — he  added  in  a  mysterious  whisper. 

"Thank  you,  my  friend.  I  am  aware  of  all  that."  But  as 
John  drove  on,  he  remained  for  some  time  very  silent. 

On,  across  the  bleak  country,  with  the  snow  pelting  in  our 
faces — along  roads  so  deserted  that  our  carriage-wheels  made 
the  only  sound  audible,  and  that  might  have  been  heard  dis- 
tinctly for  miles. 

All  of  a  sudden  the  horses  were  pulled  up.  Three  or  four 
ill-looking  figures  had  started  out  of  a  ditch-bank,  and  caught 
hold  of  the  reins. 

"Halloo  there! — what  do  you  want?" 

"Money." 

"Let  go  my  horses!  They're  spirited  beasts.  You'll  get 
trampled  on." 

"Who  cares?" 

This  brief  colloquy  passed  in  less  than  a  minute.  It  showed 
at  once  our  position — miles  away  from  any  house — on  this 
desolate  moor;  showed  plainly  our  danger— John's  danger. 

He  himself  did  not  seem  to  recognize  it.  He  stood  upright 
on  the  box-seat,  the  whip  in  his  hand. 

"Get  away,  you  fellows,  or  I  must  drive  over  you!" 

"Thee'd  better!"  With  a  yell,  one  of  the  men  leaped  up 
and  clung  to  the  neck  of  the  plunging  mare — then  was  dashed 
to  the  ground  between  her  feet.  The  poor  wretch  uttered  one 
groan  and  no  more.  John  sprang  out  of  his  carriage,  caught 
the  mare's  head,  and  backed  her. 

"Hold  off! — the  poor  fellow  is  killed,  or  may  be  in  a  minute. 
Hold  off,  I  say." 

If  ever  these  men,  planning  perhaps  their  first  ill  deed, 
were  struck  dumb  with  astonishment,  it  was  to  see  the  gentle- 
man they  were  intending  to  rob  take  up  their  comrade  in  his 
arms,  drag  him  toward  the  carriage-lamps,  rub  snow  on  his 


360  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

face  and  chafe  his  heavy  hands.  But  all  in  vain.  The  blood 
trickled  down  from  a  wound  in  his  temples — the  head,  with 
its  open  mouth  dropping,  fell  back  upon  John's  knee. 

"He  is  quite  dead." 

The  others  gathered  round  in  silence,  watching  Mr.  Halifax, 
as  he  still  knelt,  with  the  dead  man's  head  leaning  against  him, 
mournfully  regarding  it. 

"I  think  I  know  him.     Where  does  his  wife  live?" 

Some  one  pointed  across  the  moor  to  a  light,  faint  as  a  glow- 
worm. "Take  that  rug  out  of  my  carriage — wrap  him  in  it." 
The  order  was  at  once  obeyed.  "Now  carry  him  home.  I 
will  follow  presently." 

"Surely  not,"  expostulated  Lord  Ravenel,  who  had  got  out 
of  the  carriage  and  stood,  shivering  and  much  shocked,  beside 
Mr.  Halifax.  "You  would  not  surely  put  yourself  in  the  pow- 
er of  these  scoundrels.  What  brutes  they  are — the  lower  or- 
ders!" 

"Not  altogether — when  you  know  them.  Phineas,  will  you 
drive  Lord  Ravenel  on  to  Beechwood?" 

"Excuse  me — certainly  not,"  said  Lord  Ravenel,  with  dig- 
nity. "We  will  stay  to  see  the  result  of  the  affair.  What  a 
singular  man  Mr.  Halifax  is,  and  always  was,"  he  added, 
thoughtfully,  as  he  muffled  himself  up  again  in  his  furs,  and 
relapsed  into  silence. 

Soon,  following  the  track  of  those  black  figures  across  the 
snow,  we  came  to  a  cluster  of  peat  huts,  along-side  of  the 
moorland  road.  John  took  one  of  the  carriage  lamps  in  his 
hand,  and  went  in  without  saying  a  word.  To  my  surprise 
Lord  Ravenel  presently  dismounted  and  followed  him.  I  was 
left  with  the  reins  in  my  hand,  and  two  or  three  of  those  ill- 
visaged  men  hovering  about  the  carriage;  but  no  one  at- 
tempted to  do  me  any  harm.  Nay,  when  John  reappeared, 
after  a  lapse  of  some  minutes,  one  of  them  civilly  picked  up 
the  whip  and  put  it  into  his  hand. 

"Thank  you.  Now,  my  men,  tell  me  what  did  you  want 
with  me  just  now?" 

"Money,"  cried  one.     "Work,"  shouted  another. 

"And  a  likely  way  you  went  about  to  get  it!  Stopping  me 
in  the  dark,  on  a  lonely  road,  just  like  common  robbers.  I 
did  not  think  any  Enderley  men  would  have  done  a  thing  so 
cowardly." 

"We  bean't  cowards/''  was  the  surly  answer,  "Thee  carries 
pistols,  Mr.  Halifax." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  361 

"You  forced  me  to  do  it.  My  life  is  as  precious  to  my  wife 
and  children — as — as  that  poor  fellow's  is  to  his."  John 
stopped.  "God  help  us,  my  men!  it's  a  hard  world  for  us  all 
sometimes.  Why  did  you  not  know  me  better?  Why  not 
come  to  my  house,  and  ask  honestly  for  a  dinner  and  a  half 
crown?  You  should  have  both,  any  day." 

"Thank'ee,  sir,"  was  the  general  cry.  "And,  sir,"  begged 
one  old  man,  "you'll  hush  up  the  'crowner's  'quest — you  and 
this  gentleman  here?  You  won't  put  us  in  jail  for  taking  to 
the  road,  Mr.  Halifax?" 

"No;  unless  you  attack  me  again.  But  I  am  not  afraid.  I'll 
trust  you.  Look  here!"  He  took  the  pistol  out  of  his  breast- 
pocket, cocked  it,  and  fired  its  two  barrels  harmlessly  into  the 
air.  "Now,  good-night,  and  if  ever  I  carry  fire-arms  again, 
it  will  be  your  fault,  not  mine." 

So  saying,  he  held  the  carriage-door  open  for  Lord  Eavenel, 
who  took  his  place  with  a  subdued  and  thoughtful  air;  then 
mounting  the  box-seat,  John  drove,  in  somewhat  melancholy 
silence,  across  the  snowy  starlit  moors  to  Beechwood. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

In  the  home-light. 

It  was  a  scene — glowing  almost  as  those  evening  pictures  at 
Longfield.  Those  pictures,  photographed  on  memory  by  the 
summer  sun  of  our  lives,  and  which  no  paler  after-sun  could 
have  power  to  reproduce.  Nothing  earthly  is  ever  reproduced 
in  the  same  form.  I  suppose  Heaven  meant  it  to  be  so;  that 
in  the  perpetual  progression  of  our  existence,  we  should  be 
reconciled  to  loss,  and  taught  that  change  itself  is  but  another 
form  for  aspiration.  Aspiration,  which  never  can  rest,  or 
ought  to  rest,  in  anything  short  of  the  One  absolute  Perfec- 
tion— the  One  all-satisfying  Good,  "in  whom  is  no  variable- 
ness, neither  shadow  of  turning." 

I  say  this  to  excuse  myself  for  thoughts  which  at  times  made 
me  grave — even  in  the  happy  home-light  of  John's  study: 
where,  for  several  weeks  after  the  last  incident  I 'have  recorded, 
the  family  were  in  the  habit  of  gathering  every  evening.  For 
poor  Guy  was  a  captive.  The  "mere  trifle"  had  turned  out  to 
be  a  sprained  foot,  which  happening  to  a  tall  and  strong  young 
man  became  serious.  He  bore  his  imprisonment  restlessly 


362  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

enough  at  first,  but  afterward  grew  more  reconciled — took  to 
reading,  drawing  and  society — and  even  began  to  interest  him- 
self in  the  pursuits  of  his  sister  Maud,  who  every  morning  had 
her  lessons  in  the  study. 

Miss  Silver  first  proposed  this.  She  had  evinced  more  feel- 
ing than  was  usual  to  her  since  Guy's  accident;  showed  him 
many  little  feminine  kindnesses — out  of  compunction  it 
seemed;  and  altogether  was  much  improved.  Of  evenings,  as 
now,  she  always  made  one  of  the  "young  people,"  who  were 
generally  grouped  together  round  Guy's  sofa — Edwin,  Wal- 
ter, and  little  Maud.  The  father  and  mother  sat  opposite — 
as  usual,  side  by  side,  he  with  his  newspaper,  she  with  her 
work.  Or  sometimes  falling  into  pleasant  idleness,  they  would 
slip  hand  in  hand,  and  sit  talking  to  one  another  in  an  under- 
tone, or  silently  and  smilingly  watch  the  humors  of  their  chil- 
dren. 

For  me,  I  generally  took  to  my  nook  in  the  chimney-corner 
— it  was  a  very  ancient  fire-place,  with  settles  on  each  side, 
and  dogs  instead  of  a  grate,  upon  which  many  a  fagot  hissed 
and  crackled  its  merry  brief  life  aAvay.  Nothing  could  be 
more  cheery  and  comfortable  than  this  old-fashioned,  low- 
roofed  room,  three  sides  of  which  were  peopled  with  books — 
all  the  books  which  John  had  gathered  up  during  the  course 
of  his  life.  Perhaps  it  was  their  long  familiar,  friendly  faces, 
which  made  this  his  favorite  room  his  own  especial  domain. 
But  he  did  not  keep  it  tabooed  from  his  family;  he  liked  to 
have  them  about  him,  even  in  his  studious  hours. 

So,  of  evenings,  we  all  sat  together  as  now,  each  busy,  and 
none  interrupting  the  rest.  At  intervals,  flashes  of  talk  or 
laughter  broke  out,  chiefly  from  Guy,  Walter,  or  Maud,  when 
Edwin  would  look  up  from  his  everlasting  book,  and  even  the 
grave  governess  relax  into  a  smile.  Since  she  had  learned  to 
smile,  it  became  more  and  more  apparent  how  very  handsome 
Miss  Silver  was.  "Handsome,"  is,  I  think,  the  fittest  word 
for  her;  that  correctness  of  form  and  color,  which  attracts  the 
eye  chiefly,  and  perhaps  the  eye  of  men  rather  than  of  women; 
at  least,  Mrs.  Halifax  could  never  be  brought  to  see  it.  But 
then  her  peculiar  taste  was  for  slender,  small  brunettes,  like 
Grace  Oldtower;  whereas  Miss  Silver  was  large  and  fair. 

Fair,  in  every  sense,  most  decidedly.  And  now  that  she 
evidently  began  to  pay  a  little  more  attention  to  her  dress  and 
her  looks,  we  found  out  that  she  was  also  young. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  363 

"Only  twenty-one  to-day,  Guy  says,"  I  remarked  one  day  to 
Ursula. 

"How  did  Guy  know  it?" 

"I  believe  he  discovered  the  wonderful  secret  from  Maud." 

"Maud  and  her  brother  Guy  have  grown  wonderful  friends 
since  his  illness.  Do  you  not  think  so?" 

""Yes,  I  found  the  two  of  them — and  even  Miss  Silver — as 
merry  as  possible  when  I  came  into  the  study  this  morning." 

"Did  you?"  said  the  mother,  with  an  involuntary  glance  at 
the  group  opposite. 

There  was  nothing  particular  to  observe.  They  all  sat  in 
most  harmless  quietude,  Edwin  reading,  Maud  at  his  feet, 
playing  with  the  cat,  Miss  Silver  busy  at  a  piece  of  that  deli- 
cate muslin-work  with  which  young  women  then  used  to  orna- 
ment their  gowns.  Guy  had  been  drawing  a  pattern  for  it, 
and  now  leaned  back  upon  his  sofa,  shading  off  the  fire  with 
his  hand,  and  from  behind  it  gazing,  as  I  had  often  seen  him 
gaze  lately,  with  a  curious  intentness,  at  the  young  governess. 

"Guy,"  said  his  mother  (and  Guy  started),  "what  were  you 
thinking  about?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  that  is "  Here,  by  some  accident,  Miss 

Silver  quitted  the  room.  "Mother,  come  over  here,  I  want 
}'our  opinion.  There,  sit  down — though  it's  nothing  of  the 
least  importance." 

Nevertheless  it  was  with  some  hesitation  that  he  brought 
out  the  mighty  question,  namely,  that  it  was  Miss  Silver's 
birthday  to-day;  that  he  thought  we  ought  to  remember  it, 
and  give  her  some  trifle  as  a  present. 

"And  I  was  considering,  this  large  'Flora'  I  ordered  from 
London — she  would  like  it  extremely;  she  is  so  fond  of  bot- 
any." 

"What  do  you  know  about  botany?"  said  Edwin,  sharply, 
and  rather  irrelevantly  as  it  seemed,  till  I  remembered  how 
he  plumed  himself  upon  his  knowledge  of  this  science,  and 
how  he  had  persisted  in  taking  Maud,  and  her  governess  also, 
along  wintry  walks  across  the  country  "in  order  to  study  the 
cryptogamia." 

Guy  vouchsafed  no  answer  to  his  brother;  he  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  beautiful  "Flora" 
on  his  knee. 

"'What  do  you  say,  all  of  you?  Father,  don't  you  think 
she  would  like  it?  Then  suppose  you  give  it  to  her?" 

At  this  inopportune  moment  Miss  Silver  returned. 


364  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

She  might  have  been  aware  that  she  was  under  discussion — 
at  least  so  much  of  discussion  as  was  implied  by  Guy's  eager 
words  and  his  mother's  silence,  for  she  looked  around  her  un- 
easily, and  was  about  to  retire. 

"Do  not  go,"  Guy  exclaimed,  anxiously. 

"Pray,  do  not,"  his  mother  added;  "we  were  just  talking 
about  you,  Miss  Silver.  My  son  hopes  you  will  accept  this 
book  from  him,  and  from  us  all,  with  all  kind  birthday  wish- 
es." 

And  rising,  with  a  little  more  gravity  than  was  her  wont, 
Mrs.  Halifax  touched  the  girl's  forehead  with  her  lips,  and 
gave  her  the  present. 

Miss  Silver  colored  and  drew  back.  "You  are  very  good, 
but  indeed  I  would  much  rather  not  have  it." 

"Why  so?     Do  you  dislike  gifts,  or  this  gift  in  particular?" 

"Oh,  no;  certainly  not." 

"Then,"  said  John,  as  he  too  came  forward  and  shook  hands 
with  her  with  an  air  of  hearty  kindness,  "pray  take  the  book. 
Do  let  us  show  how  much  we  respect  you;  how  entirely  we  re- 
gard you  as  one  of  the  family." 

Guy  turned  a  look  of  grateful  pleasure  to  his  father;  but 
Miss  Silver  coloring  more  than  ever,  still  held  back. 

"No,  I  cannot;  indeed,  I  cannot." 

"Why  can  you  not?" 

"For  several  reasons." 

"Give  me  only  one  of  them — as  much  as  can  be  expected 
from  a  young  lady,"  said  Mr.  Halifax,  good-humoredly. 

"Mr.  Guy  ordered  the  'Flora'  for  himself.  I  must  not  allow 
him  to  renounce  his  pleasure  for  me." 

"It  would  not  be  renouncing  it  if  you  had  it,"  returned  the 
lad,  in  a  low  tone,  at  which  once  more  his  younger  brother 
looked  up  angrily. 

"What  folly  about  nothing!  how  can  one  read  with  such  a 
clatter  going  on?" 

"You  old  bookworm!  you  care  for  nothing  and  nobody  but 
yourself,"  Guy  answered,  laughing.  But  Edwin,  really  in- 
censed, rose  and  settled  himself  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room. 

"p]dwin  is  right,"  said  the  father,  in  a  tone  which  indicated 
his  determination  to  end  the  discussion,  a  tone  which  even 
Miss  Silver  obeyed.  "My  dear  young  lady,  I  hope  you  will 
like  your  book;  Guy,  write  her  name  in  it  at  once." 

Guy  willingly  obeyed,  but  was  a  good  while  over  the  task; 
his  mother  came  and  looked  over  his  shoulder. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  365 

"Louise  Eugenie — how  did  you  know  that,  Guy?  Louise 
Eugenie  Sil — ,  is  that  your  name,  my  dear?" 

The  question  simple  as  it  was,  seemed  to  throw  the  govern- 
ess into  much  confusion,  even  agitation.  At  last  she  drew 
herself  up  with  the  old  repulsive  gesture,  which  of  late  had 
been  slowly  wearing  off. 

"No — I  will  not  deceive  you  any  longer.  My  right  name  is 
Louise  Eugenie  d' Argent." 

Mrs.  Halifax  started.     "Are  you  a  Frenchwoman?" 

"On  my  father's  side — yes." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  so?" 

"Because  if  you  remember,  at  our  first  interview,  you  said  no 
Frenchwoman  should  educate  your  daughter.  And  I  was 
homeless — friendless." 

"Better  starve  than  tell  a  falsehood,"  cried  the  mother,  in- 
dignantly. 

"I  told  no  falsehood.  You  never  asked  me  of  my  parent- 
age." 

"Nay,"  said  John,  interfering,  "you  must  not  speak  in  that 
manner  to  Mrs.  Halifax.  Why  did  you  renounce  your  father's 
name?" 

"Because  English  people  would  have  scouted  my  father's 
daughter.  You  knew  him — everybody  knew  him — he  was 
D' Argent  the  Jacobin — D' Argent  the  Rouge." 

She  threw  out  these  words  defiantly,  and  quitted  the  room. 

"This  is  a  dreadful  discovery.  Edwin,  you  have  seen  most 
of  her — did  you  ever  imagine " 

"I  knew  it,  mother,"  said  Edwin,  without  lifting  his  eyes 
from  his  book.  "After  all,  French  or  English,  it  makes  no 
difference." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed!"  cried  Guy,  angrily.  "What- 
ever her  father  is,  if  any  one  dared  to  think  the  worse  of  her 
)> 

"Hush — till  another  time,"  said  the  father,  with  a  glance  at 
Maud,  who,  with  wide-open  eyes,  in  which  the  tears  were  just 
springing,  had  been  listening  to  all  these  revelations  about  her 
governess. 

But  Maud's  tears  were  soon  stopped,  as  well  as  this  painful 
conversation,  by  the  entrance  of  our  daily,  or  rather  nightly, 
visitor  for  these  six  weeks  past,  Lord  Ravenel.  His  presence, 
always  welcome,  was  a  great  relief  now.  We  never  discussed 
family  affairs  before  people.  The  boys  began  to  talk  to  Lord 
RaveneJ:  and  Maud  took  her  privileged  place  on  a  foot-stool 


366  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

beside  him.  From  the  first  sight  she  had  been  his  favorite,  he 
said,  because  of  her  resemblance  to  Muriel.  But  I  think,  more 
than  any  fancied  likeness  to  that  sweet  lost  face,  which  he 
never  spoke  of  without  tenderness  inexpressible,  there  was 
something  in  Maud's  buoyant  youth — just  between  childhood 
and  girlhood,  having  the  charms  of  one  and  the  immunities  of 
the  other — which  was  especially  attractive  to  this  man,  who, 
at  three-and-thirty,  found  life  a  weariness  nnd  a  burden — at 
least  he  said  so. 

Life  was  never  either  weary  or  burdensome  in  our  house — 
not  even  to-night,  though  our  friend  found  us  less  lively  than 
usual — though  John  maintained  more  than  his  usual  silence, 
and  Mrs.  Halifax  fell  into  troubled  reveries.  Guy  and  Ed- 
win, both  considerably  excited,  argued  and  contradicted  one 
another  more  warmly  than  even  the  Beechwood  liberty  of 
speech  allowed.  For  Miss  Silver,  she  did  not  appear  again. 

Lord  Ravenel  seemed  to  take  these  slight  de&agrt/mens 
very  calmly.  He  stayed  his  customary  time,  smiling  languid- 
ly as  ever  at  the  boys'  controversies,  or  listening  with  a  half- 
pleased,  half-melancholy  laziness  to  Maud's  gay  prattle,  his 
eye  following  her  about  the  room  with  the  privileged  tender- 
ness that  twenty  years'  seniority  allows  a  man  to  feel  and  show 
toward  a  child.  At  his  wonted  hour  he  rode  away,  sighingly 
contrasting  pleasant  Beechwood  with  dreary  and  solitary  Lux- 
rnore. 

After  his  departure,  we  did  not  again  close  round  the  fire. 
Maud  vanished;  the  younger  boys  also;  Guy  settled  himself  on 
his  sofa,  having  first  taken  the  pains  to  limp  across  the  room 
and  fetch  the  "Flora,"  which  Edwin  had  carefully  stowed 
away  in  the  book-case.  Then  making  himself  comfortable,  as 
the  pleasure-loving  lad  liked  well  enough  to  do.  he  lay  dream- 
ily gazing  at  the  title-page,  where  was  written  her  name,  and 
"From  Guy  Halifax,  with " 

"What  are  you  going  to  add,  my  son?" 

He,  glancing  up  at  his  mother,  made  her  no  answer,  and 
hastily  closed  the  book.  • 

She  looked  hurt;  but  saying  nothing  more,  began  moving 
about  the  room,  putting  things  in  order  before  retiring.  John 
sat  in  the  arm-chair — meditative.  She  asked  him  what  he 
was  thinking  about? 

"About  that  man,  Jacques  d' Argent." 

"You  have  heard  of  him,  then?" 

had  not,  twenty  years  ago.    He  was  one  of  the  most 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  367 

^blatant  beasts,'  of  the  Eeign  of  Terror.    A  fellow  without 
honesty,  conscience,  or  even  common  decency." 

"And  that  man's  daughter  we  have  had  in  our  house,  teach- 
ing our  innocent  child!" 

Alarm  and  disgust  were  written  on  every  feature  of  the 
mother's  face.  It  was  scarcely  surprising.  Now  that  the  fer- 
ment which  had  convulsed  society  in  our  younger  days  was 
settling  down,  though  we  were  still  far  from  that  ultimate 
calm  which  enables  posterity  to  judge  fully  and  fairly  such  a 
remarkable  historical  crisis  as  the  French  Eevolution,  most 
English  people  looked  back  with  horror  on  the  extreme  opin- 
ions of  that  time.  If  Mrs.  Halifax  had  a  weak  point,  it  was 
her  prejudice  against  anything  French  or  Jacobinical.  Partly 
from  that  tendency  to  moral  conversation  which  in  most  per- 
sons, especially  women,  strengthens  as  old  age  advances; 
partly,  I  believe,  from  the  terrible  warning  given  by  the  fate 
of  one,  of  whom  for  years  we  had  never  heard,  whose  very 
name  was  either  unknown  to,  or  forgotten  by,  our  children. 

"John,  can't  you  speak?  Don't  you  see  the  frightful  dan- 
ger?" 

"Love,  try  and  be  calmer." 

"How  can  I?    Eemember — remember  Caroline." 

"Nay,  we  are  not  talking  of  her,  but  of  a  girl  whom  we 
know,  and  have  had  good  opportunity  of  knowing — a  girl  who, 
whatever  may  have  been  her  antecedents,  has  lived  for  six 
months  blamelessly  in  our  house." 

"Would  to  Heaven  she  had  never  entered  it.  But  it  is  not 
too  late.  She  may  leave — she  shall  leave  immediately." 

"Mother!"  burst  out  Guy.  Never  since  she  bore  him,  had 
his  mother  heard  her  name  uttered  in  such  a  tone. 

She  stood  petrified. 

"Mother,  you  are  unjust,  heartless,  cruel!  She  shall  not 
leave;  she  shall  not,  I  say!" 

"Guy,  how  dare  you  speak  to  your  mother  in  that  way?" 

"Yes,  father,  I  dare.     I'll  dare  anything  rather  than " 

"Stop.  Mind  what  you  are  saying — or  you  may  repent 
it." 

And  Mr.  Halifax,  speaking  in  that  low  tone  to  which  his 
voice  fell  in  serious  displeasure,  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  the 
lad's  shoulder.  Father  and  son  exchanged  fiery  glances. 
The  mother,  terrified,  rushed  between  them. 

"Don't,  John.  Don't  be  angry  with  him.  He  could  not 
help  it — my  poor  boy!" 


368  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

At  her  piteous  look,  Guy  and  his  father  both  drew  back. 
John  put  his  arm  round  his  wife,  and  made  her  sit  down. 
She  was  trembling  exceedingly. 

"You  see,  Guy,  how  wrong  you  have  been.  How  could 
you  wound  your  mother  so?" 

"I  did  not  mean  to  wound  her/'  the  lad  answered.  "I  only 
wished  to  prevent  her  from  being  unjust  and  unkind  to  one 
to  whom  she  must  show  all  justice  and  kindness.  One 
Avhom  I  respect,  esteem — whom  I  love." 

"Love!" 

"Yes,  mother!  Yes,  father!  I  love  her.  I  intend  to 
marry  her." 

Guy  said  this  with  an  air  of  quiet  determination  very  differ- 
ent from  the  usual  impetuosity  of  his  character.  It  was  easy 
to  perceive  that  a  great  change  had  come  over  him;  that  in 
this  passion,  the  silent  growth  of  which  no  one  had  sus- 
pected, he  was  most  thoroughly  in  earnest.  From  the  boy, 
he  had  suddenly  started  up  into  the  man;  and  his  parents  saw 
it. 

They  looked  at  him,  and  then  mournfully  at  one  another. 
The  father  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"All  this  is  very  sudden.  You  should  have  told  us  of  it 
before." 

"I  did  not  know  of  it  myself  till — till  very  lately,"  the 
youth  answered  more  softly,  lowering  his  head  and  blushing. 

"Is  Miss  Silver — is  the  lady  aware  of  it?" 

"No." 

"That  is  well,"  said,  the  father,  after  a  pause.  "In  this 
.silence  you  have  acted  as  an  honorable  lover  should,  toward 
her;  as  a  dutiful  son  should  act  toward  his  parents." 

Guy  looked  pleased.  He  stole  his  hand  nearer  his 
mother's,  but  she  neither  took  it  nor  repelled  it;  she  seemed 
quite  stunned. 

At  this  point  I  noticed  that  Maud  had  crept  into  the  room; 
I  sent  her  out  again  as  quickly  as  I  could.  Alas!  this  was  the 
first  secret  that  needed  to  be  kept  from  her;  the  first  painful 
mystery  in  our  happy,  happy  home! 

In  any  such  home  the  first  "falling  in  love,"  whether  of 
son  or  daughter,  necessarily  makes  a  great  change.  Greater 
if  the  former  than  the  latter.  There  is  often  a  pitiful  truth 
—I  know  not  why  it  should  be  so,  but  so  it  is — in  the  foolish 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  369 

rhyme,  which  the  mother  had  laughingly  said  over  to  me 
this  morning: 

"My  son's  my  son  till  he  gets  him  a  wife, 
My  daughter's  my  daughter  all  her  life." 

And  when,  as  in  this  case,  the  son  wishes  to  marry  one 
whom  his  father  may  not  wholly  approve,  whom  his  mother 
does  not  heartily  love,  surely  the  pain  is  deepened  tenfold. 

Those  who  in  the  dazzled  vision  of  youth  see  only  the 
beauty  and  splendor  of  love — first  love,  who  deem  it  com- 
prises the  whole  of  life,  beginning,  aim,  and  end — may  mar- 
vel that  I,  who  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old,  see  as  I 
saw  that  night,  not  only  the  lover's,  but  the  parents'  side  of 
the  question.  I  felt  overwhelmed  with  sadness,  as  viewing 
the  three,  I  counted  up  in  all  its  bearings  and  consequences, 
near  and  remote,  this  attachment  of  poor  Guy's. 

"Well,  father,"  he  said  at  last,  guessing  by  intuition  that 
the  father's  heart  would  best  understand  his  own. 

"Well,  my  son,"  John  answered,  sadly. 

"You  were  young  once." 

"So  I  was,"  with  a  tender  glance  upon  the  lad's  heated  and 
excited  countenance.  "Do  not  suppose  I  cannot  feel  with 
you.  Still,  I  wish  you  had  been  less  precipitate." 

"You  were  little  older  than  I  am  when  you  married?" 

"But  my  marriage  was  rather  different  from  this  projected 
one  of  yours.  I  knew  your  mother  well,  and  she  knew  me. 
Both  of  us  had  been  tried — by  trouble  which  we  shared  to- 
gether, by  absence,  by  many  and  various  cares.  We  chose 
one  another,  not  hastily  or  blindly,  but  with  free-will  and 
open  eyes.  No,  Guy,"  he  added,  speaking  earnestly  and 
softly,  "mine  was  no  sudden  fancy,  no  frantic  passion.  I  hon- 
ored your  mother  above  all  women.  I  loved  her  as  my  own 
soul." 

"So  do  I  love  Louise.     I  would  die  for  her  any  day." 

At  the  son's  impetuosity  the  father  smiled;  not  incredu- 
lously, only  sadly. 

All  this  while  the  mother  had  sat  motionless,  never  utter- 
ing a  sound.  Suddenly,  hearing  a  footstep  and  a  light 
knock  at  the  door,  she  darted  forward  and  locked  it,  cry- 
ing, in  a  voice  that  one  could  have  hardly  recognized  as  hers: 

"$0  admittance!     Go  away." 

24 


370  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

A  note  was  pushed  in  under  the  door.  Mrs.  Halifax  picked 
it  up,  opened  it,  read  it  mechanically,  and  sat  down  agaiu, 
taking  no  notice  even  when  Guy,  catching  sight  of  the  hand- 
writing, eagerly  seized  the  paper. 

It  was  merely  a  line,  stating  Miss  Silver's  wish  to  leave 
F>eechwood  immediately;  signed  with  her  full  name — her 
right  name — "Louise  Eugenie  d'Argent." 

A  postscript  added:  "Your  silence  I  shall  take  as  permis- 
sion to  depart;  and  shall  be  gone  early  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow!  Gone  to-morrow!  And  she  does  not  even 
know  that — that  I  love  her.  Mother,  you  have  ruined  my 
happpiness.  I  will  never  forgive  you — never!" 

Never  forgive  his  mother.  His  mother,  who  had  borne 
him,  nursed  him,  reared  him;  who  had  loved  him  with  that 
love — like  none  other  in  the  world — the  love  of  a  woman  for 
her  first-born  son,  all  these  twenty-one  years! 

It  was  hard.  I  think  the  most  passionate  lover,  in  reas- 
onable moments,  would  allow  that  it  was  hard.  No  marvel 
that  even  her  husband's  clasp  could  not  remove  the  look  of 
heart-broken,  speechless  suffering  which  settled  stonily  down 
in  Ursula's  face,  as  she  watched  her  boy — storming  about, 
furious  with  uncontrollable  passion  and  pain. 

At  last,  mother-like,  she  forgot  the  passion  in  pity  of  the 
pain. 

"He  is  not  strong  yet;  he  will  do  himself  harm.  Let  me 
go  to  him!  John,  let  me!"  Her  husband  released  her. 

Faintly,  with  a  weak,  uncertain  walk,  she  went  up  to  Guy 
and  touched  his  arm. 

"You  must  keep  quiet,  or  you  will  be  ill.  I  cannot  have  my 
son  ill — not  for  any  girl.  Come,  sit  down — here,  beside  your 
mother." 

She  was  obeyed.  Looking  into  her  eyes,  and  seeing  no  anger 
there,  nothing  but  grief  and  love,  the  young  man'  right  spir- 
its came  back  into  him  again. 

"0,  mother,  mother,  forgive  me!  I  am  so  miserable — so 
miserable!" 

He  laid  his  head  on  her  shoulder.  She  kissed  and  clasped 
him  close — her  boy  who  never  could  be  wholly  hers  again, 
who  had  learned  to  love  some  one  else  dearer  than  his 
mother. 

After  a  while  she  said,  "Father,  shake  hands  with  Guy. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  871 

Tell  him  that  we  forgive  his  being  angry  with  us;  thai  per- 
haps some  day " 

She  stopped,  uncertain  as  to  the  father's  mind,  or  seeking 
strength  for  her  own. 

•'Some  day,"  John  continued,  "Guy  will  find  out  that  we 
can  have  nothing  in  the  world,  except  our  children's  good, 
so  dear  to  us  as  their  happiness." 

Guy  looked  up,  beaming  with  hope  and  joy.  "0,  father! 
0.  mother!  will  you,  indeed " 

"We  will  indeed  say  nothing,"  the  father  answered,  smil- 
ing; "nothing  until  to-morrow.  Then  we  will  all  three  talk 
the  matter  quietly  over,  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

Of  course  I  knew  to  a  certainty,  the  conclusion  they  would 
come  to. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Late  last  night,  as  .1  sat  up  pondering  over  all  that  had  hap- 
pened, Mrs.  Halifax  came  into  my  room. 

She  looked  round,  asked  rne,  according  to  her  wont,  if  there 
was  anything  I  wanted  before  she  retired  for  the  night? — 
Ursula  was  as  good  to  me  as  any  sister — then  stood  by  my 
easy-chair.  I  would  not  meet  her  eyes,  but  I  saw  her  hands 
fluttering  in  their  restless  way. 

I  pointed  to  her  accustomed  chair. 

"No,  I  can't  sit  down.  I  must  say  good-night."  Then 
coming  at  once  to  the  point — "Phineas,  you  are  always  up  first 
in  the  morning.  Will  you — John  thinks  it  had  better  be 
from  you — will  you  give  a  message  from  us  to  Maud's  gov- 
erness?" 

"Yes.     What  shall  I  say?" 

"Merely,  that  we  request  she  will  not  leave  Beechwood  un- 
til we  have  seen  her." 

If  Miss  Silver  had  overheard  the  manner  and  tone  of  that 
"request,"  I  doubt  if  it  would  not  have  hastened  rather  than 
delayed  her  departure.  But  God  help  the  poor  mother!  her 
wounds  were  still  fresh. 

"Would  it  not  be  better,"  I  suggested,  "if  you  were  to 
write  to  her?" 

"I  can't;  no,  I  can't" — spoken  with  the  sharpness  of  ex- 


372  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ceeding  pain.     Soon  after,  as  in  a  faint  apology,  she  added, 
1  "I  am  so  tired;  we  are  very  late  to-night." 

"Yes;  it  is  almost  morning.  I  thought  you  were  both  in 
bed." 

"No;  we  have  been  sitting  talking  in  Guy's  room.  His  fa- 
ther thought  it  would  be  better." 

"And  is  all  settled?" 

"Yes." 

Having  told  me  this,  and  having,  as  it  were,  by  such  a 
conclusion  confessed  it  was  right  the  question  should  be  thus; 
"settled,"  Guy's  mother  seemed  more  herself. 

"Yes,"  she  repeated,  "John  thinks  it  ought  to  be.  At 
least,  that  she  should  know  Guy's — the  feeling  with  which  Guy 
regards  her.  If,  after  the  probation  of  a  year,  it  still  remains, 
and  he  is  content  to  begin  life  on  a  small  income,  we  have 
given  our  consent  to  our  son's  marriage." 

It  struck  me  how  the  mother's  mind  entirely  dwelt  on  the 
one  party  in  this  matter — "Guy's  feelings" — "Our  son's  mar- 
riage"— and  so  on.  The  other  side  of  the  question,  or  the 
possibility  of  any  hinderance  there,  never  seemed  to  enter 
her  imagination.  Perhaps,  it  would  not,  even  into  mine,  for 
I  shared  the  family  faith  in  its  best-beloved  Guy,  but  for  Mrs. 
Halifax's  so  entirely  ignoring  the  idea  that  any  consent  ex- 
cept her  son's  and  his  parents'  was  necessary  to  this  mar- 
riage. 

"It  will  not  part  him  from  us  so  very  much,  you  see,  Phin- 
eas,"  she  said,  evidently  trying  to  view  the  bright  side — "and 
she  has  no  relatives  living — not  one.  For  income — Guy  will 
have  the  entire  profit  of  the  Norton  Bury  mills;  and  they 
might  begin,  as  we  did,  in  the  old  Norton  Bury  house — the 
dear  old  house." 

The  thought  of  her  own  young  days  seemed  to  come, 
soothingly  and  sweet,  taking  the  sting  out  of  her  pain,  show- 
ing her  how  it  was  but  right  and  justice  that  Nature's  holy 
law  should  be  fulfilled — that  children,  in  their  turn,  should 
love,  and  marry,  and  be  happy,  like  their  parents. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  as  I  gently  hinted  this;  "I  know 
you  are  right;  all  is  quite  right,  and  as  it  should  be,  though 
it  was  a  shock  at  first.  No  matter;  John  esteems  her — John 
likes  her.  For  me — oh,  I  shall  make  a  capital — what  is  it? 
— a  capital  mother-in-law — in  time!" 

"With  that  smile,  which  was  almost  cheerful,  she  bade  me 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  373 

good-night — rather  hastily,  perhaps,  as  if  she  wished  to  leave 
me  while  her  cheerfulness  lasted.  Then  I  heard  her  step 
along  the  passage,  pausing  once — most  likely  at  Guy's  room 
door;  her  own  closed,  and  the  house  was  in  silence. 

I  rose  earl}'  in  the  morning — not  one  whit  too  early,  for 
I  met  Miss  Silver  in  the  hall,  bonneted  and  shawled,  carrying 
down  with  her  own  hands  a  portion  of  her  chattels.  She 
evidently  contemplated  an  immediate  departure.  It  was  with 
the  greutest  difficulty  that,  without  betraying  my  reasons, 
which,  of  course,  was  impossible,  I  could  persuade  her  to 
change  her  determination. 

Poor  girl!  last  night's  events  had  apparently  shaken  her 
from  that  indifference  which  she  seemed  to  think  the  best 
armor  of  a  helpless,  proud  governess  against  the  world.  She 
would  scarcely  listen  to  a  word.  She  was  in  extreme  agita- 
tion: half  a  dozen  times  she  insisted  on  leaving,  and  then  sat 
down  again. 

I  had  not  given  her  credit  for  so  much  wholesome  irreso- 
lution— so  much  genuine  feeling.  Her  manner  almost  con- 
vinced me  of  a  fact  which  every  one  else  seemed  to  hold  as 
certain,  but  which  I  myself  should  have  liked  to  see  proved; 
namely,  that  Guy,  in  asking  her  love,  would  have — what  in 
every  right  and  happy  marriage  a  man  ought  to  have — the 
knowledge  that  the  love  was  his  before  he  asked  for  it. 

Seeing  this,  my  heart  warmed  to  the  girl.  I  respected 
her  brave  departure.  I  rejoiced  that  it  was  needless.  Will- 
ingly I  would  have  quieted  her  distress  with  some  hopeful, 
ambiguous  word,  but  that  would  have  been  trenching,  as 
no  one  ever  ought  to  trench,  on  the  lover's  sole  right.  So 
I  held  my  tongue,  watching  with  an  amused  pleasure  ihe 
color  hovering  to  and  fro  over  that  usually  impassive  face. 

At  last,  at  the  opening  of  the  study  door — we  stood  in  the 
hall  still — those  blushes  rose  up  to  her  forehead  in  one  in- 
voluntary tide. 

But  it  was  only  Edwin,  who  had  lately  taken  to  a  habit  of 
getting  up  very  early — to  study  mathematics.  He  looked  sur- 
prised at  seeing  me  with  Miss  Silver. 

"What  is  that  box?    She  is  not  going?" 

"No;  I  have  been  entreating  her  not.  Add  your  persua- 
sions, Edwin." 

For  Edwin,  with  all  his  quietness,  was  a  lad  of  much  wis- 
dom, great  influence,  and  no  little  penetration.  1  felt  in- 


874  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

clined  to  believe  that  though  as  yet  he  had  not  been  let  into 
the  secret  of  last  night,  he  guessed  it  pretty  well  already. 

He  might  have  done,  by  the  peculiar  manner  in  which  he 
went  up  to  the  governess  and  took  her  hand. 

"Pray  stay;  I  beg  of  you." 

She  made  no  more  ado,  but  stayed. 

I  left  her  with  Edwin,  and  took  my  usual  walk,  up  and 
down  the  garden,  till  breakfast-time. 

A  strange  and  painful  breakfast  it  was,  even  though  the 
most  important  element  of  its  painfulness — Guy — was  hap- 
pily absent.  The  rest  of  us  kept  up  a  fragmentary,  awkward 
conversation,  every  one  round  the  room  looking,  as,  indeed, 
one  might  have  expected  they  would  look,  with  one  excep- 
tion. 

Miss  Silver,  who,  from  her  behavior  last  night  and  her 
demeanor  to  me  this  morning,  I  had  supposed  would  now 
have  gathered  up  all  her  haughtiness  to  resist  Guy's  parents 
— as,  ignorant  both  of  his  feelings  and  their  intentions 
toward  her,  a  young  lady  of  her  proud  spirit  might  well  resist 
— was,  to  my  astonishment,  as  mild  and  meek  as  this  soft 
spring  morning.  Nay,  like  it,  seemed  often  on  the  very  verge 
of  the  melting  mood.  More  than  once  her  drooping  eyelashes 
were  gemmed  with  tears.  And  when,  the  breakfast-table 
being  quickly  deserted — Edwin,  indeed,  had  left  it  almost 
immediately — she,  sitting  absently  in  her  place,  was  gently 
touched  by  Mrs.  Halifax;  she  started  up,  with  the  same  vivid 
rush  of  color  that  I  had  before  noticed.  It  completely  altered 
the  expression  of  her  face;  made  her  look  ten  years  younger 
— ten  years  happier,  and,  being  happier,  ten  times  more 
amiable. 

This  expression — I  was  not  the  only  one  to  notice  it — 
was,  by  some  intuition,  reflected  on  the  mother's.  It  made 
softer  than  any  speech  of  hers  to  Miss  Silver,  the  few  words: 

"My  dear,  will  you  come  with  me  into  the  study?" 

"To  lessons?  Yes.  I  beg  your  pardon!  Maud — where 
is  Maud?" 

"Never  mind  lessons  just  yet.  We  will  have  a  little  chat 
with  my  son.  Uncle  Phineas,  you'll  come?  Will  you  come, 
too,  my  dear?" 

"If  you  wish  it."  And  with  an  air  of  unwonted  obedi- 
ence, she  followed  Mrs.  Halifax. 

Poor  Guy!     Confused  young  lover,  meeting  for  the  first 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  375 

time  after  his  confession  the  acknowledged  object  of  his 
preference,  I  really  felt  sorry  for  him!  And,  except  that 
women  have  generally  twice  as  much  self-control  in  such 
cases  as  men — and  Miss  Silver  proved  it — I  might  even  have 
been  sorry  for  her.  But  then  her  uncertainties  would  soon  be 
over.  She  had  not  to  make — all  her  family  being  aware  she 
was  then  and  there  making  it — that  terrible  "offer  of  mar- 
riage," which,  I  am  given  to  understand,  is,  even  under  the 
most  favorable  circumstances,  as  formidable  as  going  up  to 
the  cannon's  mouth. 

I  speak  of  it  jestingly,  as  we  all  jested  uneasily  that  morn- 
ing save  Mrs.  Halifax,  who  scarcely  spoke  a  word.  At  length, 
when  Miss  Silver,  growing  painfully  restless,  again  referred 
to  "lessons,"  she  said: 

,  "Not  yet.    I  want  Maud  for  half  an  hour.     Will  you  be 
so  kind  as  to  take  my  place,  and  sit  with  my  son,  the  while?" 

"Oh,  certainly!" 

I  was  vexed  with  her — really  vexed — for  that  ready  assent; 
but  then,  who  knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  women's  ways?  At 
any  rate,  for  Guy's  sake,  this  must  be  got  over — the  quicker 
the  better.  His  mother  rose. 

"My  son,  my  dear  boy!"  She  leaned  over  him,  whispering 
— I  think  she  kissed  him — then  slowly,  quietly,  she  walked 
out  of  the  study.  I  followed.  Outside  the  door  we  parted, 
and  I  heard  her  go  upstairs  to  her  own  room. 

It  might  have  been  half  an  hour  afterward,  when  Maud 
and  I,  coming  in  from  the  garden,  met  her  standing  in  the 
hall.  No  one  was  with  her,  and  she  was  doing  nothing;  two 
very  remarkable  facts  in  the  daily  life  of  the  mother  of  the 
family. 

Maud  ran  up  to  her  with  some  primroses. 

"Very  pretty,  very  pretty,  my  child." 

"But  you  don't  look  at  them;  you  don't  care  for  them; 
I'll  go  and  show  them  to  Miss  Silver." 

"No,"  was  the  hasty  answer.  "Come  back,  Maud,  Miss 
Silver  is  occupied." 

Making  some  excuse,  I  sent  the  child  away,  for  I  saw  that 
even  Maud's  presence  was  intolerable  to  her  mother.  That 
poor  mother,  whose  suspense  was  growing  into  positive 
agony! 

She  waited,  standing  at  the  dining-room  window,  listen- 
ing, going  in  and  out  of  the  hall,  for  another  ten  minutes. 


376  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"It  is  very  strange,  very  strange  indeed.  He  promised  to 
come  to  tell  me;  surely  at  least  he  ought  to  come  and  tell  me 
first — me,  his  mother " 

She  stopped  at  the  word,  oppressed  by  exceeding  pain. 

"Hark!  was  that  the  study  door?" 

"I  think  so;  one  minute  more  and  you  will  be  quite  cer- 
tain." 

Ay!  one  minute  more,  and  we  were  quite  certain.  The 
young  lover  entered,  his  bitter  tidings  written  on  his  face. 

"She  has  refused  me,  mother.  I  never  shall  be  happy 
more!" 

Poor  Guy!  I  slipped  out  of  his  sight  and  left  the  lad  alone 
with  his  mother. 

Another  hour  passed  of  this  strange,  strange  day.  The 
house  seemed  painfully  quiet.  Maud,  disconsolate  and  cross, 
had  taken  herself  away  to  the  beech-wood  with  Walter;  the 
father  and  Edwin  were  busy  at  the  mills,  and  had  sent  word 
that  neither  would  return  to  dinner.  I  wandered  from  room 
to  room,  always  excepting  that  shut-up  room  where,  as  I  took 
care,  no  one  should  disturb  the  mother  and  son. 

At  last  I  heard  them  both  going  upstairs — Guy  was  still  too 
lame  to  walk  without  assistance.  I  heard  the  poor  lad's  fret- 
ful tones,  and  the  soothing,  cheerful  voice  that  answered 
them.  "Verily,"  thought  I,  "if,  since  he  must  fall  in  love, 
Guy  had  only  fixed  his  ideal  standard  of  womanhood  a  little 
nearer  home — if  he  had  only  chosen  for  his  wife  a  woman 
little  more  like  his  mother!"  But  I  suppose  that  would  have 
been  expecting  impossibilities. 

Well,  he  had  been  refused! — our  Guy,  whom  we  all  would 
have  imagined  irresistible — our  Guy,  "whom  to  look  on  was 
to  love."  Some  harsh  folk  say  this  might  be  a  good  lesson  for 
the  lad — nay,  for  most  lads;  but  I  deny  it.  I  doubt  if  any 
young  man,  meeting  at  the  outset  of  life  a  rejection  like  this, 
which  either  ignorance  or  heedlessness  on  the  woman's  part 
had  made  totally  unexpected,  ever  is  the  better  for  it:  per- 
haps, for  many  years,  cruelly  the  worse.  For,  most  women 
being  quick-sighted  about  love,  and  most  men — especially 
young  men — blind  enough  in  its  betrayal — any  woman  who 
willfully  allows  an  offer  only  to  refuse  it,  lowers  not  only 
herself,  but  her  whole  sex,  for  a  long,  long  time  after  in  the 
lover's  eyes.  At  least  I  think  so — as  I  was  thinking,  in  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  377 

way  old  bachelors  are  prone  to  moralize  over  suck  things, 
when,  coming  out  of  Guy's  room,  I  met  Mrs.  Halifax. 

She  crossed  the  passage,  hastily  but  noiselessly,  to  a  small 
anteroom  which  Miss  Silver  had  for  her  own  private  study 
— out  of  which  half  a  dozen  stairs  led  to  the  chamber  where 
she  and  her  pupil  sat.  The  anteroom  was  open,  the  bed- 
chamber door  closed. 

"She  is  in  there?" 

"I  believe  she  is." 

Guy's  mother  stood  irresolute.  Her  knit  brow  and  nervous 
manner  betrayed  some  determination  she  had  come  to,  which 
had  cost  her  hard:  suddenly  she  turned  to  me. 

"Keep  the  children  out  of  the  way,  will  you,  Phineas? 
Don't  let  them  know — don't  let  anybody  know — about  Guy." 

"Of  course  not." 

"There  is  some  mistake — there  must  be  some  mistake. 
Perhaps  she  is  not  sure  of  our  consent — his  father's  and 
mine;  very  right  of  her — very  right!  I  honor  her  for  her 
indecision.  But  she  must  be  assured  to  the  contrary;  my 
boy's  peace  must  not  be  sacrificed.  You  understand,  Phin- 
eas?" 

Ay,  perhaps  better  than  she  did  herself,  poor  mother! 

Yet,  when  in  answer  to  the  hasty  knock,  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  Silver  opening  the  door — Miss  Silver,  with 
hair  all  falling  down  dishevelled,  and  features  swollen  with 
crying,  I  went  away  completely  at  fault,  as  the  standers-by 
seem  doomed  to  be  in  all  love  affairs.  I  began  to  hope  that 
this  would  settle  itself  somehow — in  all  parties  understand- 
ing one  another  after  the  good  old  romantic  fashion,  and 
"living  very  happy  to  the  end  of  their  lives." 

I  saw  nothing  more  of  any  one  until  tea-time:  when  Mrs. 
Halifax  and  the  governess  came  in  together.  Something  in 
their  manner  struck  me — one  being  subdued  and  gentle, 
the  other  tender  and  kind.  Both,  however,  were  exceed- 
ingly grave — nay,  sad;  but  it  appeared  to  be  that  sadness 
which  is  received  as  inevitable,  and  is  quite  distinct  from 
anger  or  resentment. 

Neither  Guy  nor  Edwin,  nor  the  father,  were  present. 
When  John's  voice  was  heard  in  the  hall,  Miss  Silver  had  just 
risen  to  retire  with  Maud. 

"Good-night,"  the  mother  answered,  in  the  same  whisper 
— rose,  kissed  her  kindly,  and  let  her  go. 


378  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

When  Edwin  and  his  father  appeared,  they  too  looked, 
remarkably  grave — as  grave  as  if  they  had  known  by  intui- 
tion all  the  trouble  in  the  house.  Of  course,  no  one  referred 
to  it.  The  mother  merely  noticed  how  late  they  were,  and 
how  tired  they  both  looked.  Supper  passed  in  silence,  ami 
then  Edwin  took  up  his  candle  to  go  to  bed. 

His  father  called  him  back.    "Edwin,  you  will  remembor:'" 

"I  will,  father." 

"Something  is  amiss  with  Edwin,"  said  the  mother,  when 
the  two  younger  boys  had  closed  the  door  behind  them. 
"What  did  you  wish  him  to  remember?" 

Her  husband's  sole  reply  was  to  draw  her  to  him  with 
that  peculiarly  tender  gaze  which  she  knew  well  to  be  tliLj 
forewarning  of  trouble;  trouble  he  could  not  save  her  from 
— could  only  help  her  to  bear.  Ursula  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  with  one  deep  sob  of  long-smothered  pain. 

"I  suppose  you  know  all.  I  thought  you  would  soon  guess. 
Oh,  John,  our  happy  days  are  over!  Our  children  are  chil- 
dren no  more." 

"But  ours  still,  love — always  will  be  ours." 

"What  of  that,  when  we  can  no  longer  make  them  happy? 
When  they  look  for  happiness  to  others  and  not  to  us?  My 
own  poor  boy  I  To  think  that  his  mother  can  neither  give 
him  comfort,  nor  save  him  pain,  any  more!" 

She  wept  bitterly. 

When  she  was  somewhat  soothed  John,  making  her  sit 
down  by  him,  but  turning  a  little  from  her,  bade  her  tell 
him  all  that  had  happened  to-day.  A  few  words  explained 
the  history  of  Guy's  rejection  and  its  cause. 

"She  loves  some  one  else.  When  I — as  his  mother — went 
and  asked  her  the  question,  she  confessed  this." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"What  could  I  say?  1  could  not  blame  her.  I  was  even 
sorry  for  her.  She  cried  so  bitterly  and  begged  me  to  for- 
give her.  I  said  I  did,  freely,  and  hoped  she  would  be  happy." 

"That  was  right.  I  am  glad  you  said  so.  Did  she  tell 
you  who  he — this  lover — was?" 

"No.  She  said  she  could  not  until  he  gave  her  permis- 
sion. That  whether  they  would  ever  be  married  she  did 
not  know.  She  knew  nothing  save  that  he  was  good  and 
kind,  and  the  only  creature  in  the  world  who  had  ever  cared 
for  her." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  379 

"Poor  girl!" 

"John,"  startled  by  his  manner,  "you  have  something  to 
tell  me?  You  know  who  this  is — this  man  who  has  stood 
between  my  son  and  his  happiness?" 

"Yes,  I  do  know/'' 

I  cannot  say  how  far  the  mother  saw — what,  as  if  by  a 
flash  of  lightning,  I  did;  but  she  looked  up  in  her  husband's 
face,  with  a  sudden  speechless  dread. 

"Love,  it  is  a  great  misfortune,  but  it  is  no  one's  blame 
— neither  ours,  nor  theirs — they  never  thought  of  Guy's  lov- 
ing her.  He  says  so — Edwin  himself." 

"Is  it  Edwin?"  in  a  cry  as  if  her  heart  was  breaking.  "His 
own  brother — his  very  own  brother!  Oh  my  poor  Guy!" 

Well  might  the  mother  mourn!  Well  might  the  father 
look  as  if  years  of  care  had  been  added  to  his  life  that  day! 
For  a  disaster  like  this  happening  in  any  household — especi- 
ally a  household  where  love  is  recognized  as  a  tangible  truth, 
neither  to  be  laughed  at,  passed  carelessly  over,  nor  lectured 
down — makes  the  family  cease  to  be  a  family,  in  many  things, 
from  henceforward.  The  two  strongest  feelings  of  life  clash; 
the  bond  of  brotherly  unity,  in  its  perfectness,  is  broken 
forever. 

For  some  minutes  we  sat,  bewildered  as  it  were,  think- 
ing of  the  tale  as  if  it  had  been  told  of  some  other  family 
than  ours.  Mechanically  the  mother  raised  her  eyes;  the 
first  object  they  chanced  to  meet  was  a  rude  waiter-color 
drawing,  kept,  coarse  daub  as  it  was,  because  it  was  the  only 
reminder  we  had  of  what  never  could  be  recalled — one  red- 
cheeked  child  with  a  hoop,  staring  at  another  red-cheeked 
child  with  a  nosegay — supposed  to  represent  little  Edwin  and 
little  Guy. 

"Guy  taught  Edwin  to  walk.  Edwin  made  Guy  learn  his 
letters.  How  fond  they  were  of  one  another — those  two  boys. 
Now,  brother  will  set  against  brother!  They  will  never  feel 
like  brothers — never  again." 

"Love " 

"Don't,  John!  don't  speak  to  me  just  yet.  It  is  so  ter- 
rible to  think  of.  Both  my  boys — both  my  two  noble  boys! 
to  be  miserable  for  that  girl's  sake.  Oh  that  she  had  never 
darkened  our  doors!  Oh  that  she  had  never  been  born!" 

"Nay,  you  must  not  speak  thus.  Remember — Edwin  loves 
her — she  will  be  Edwin's  wife." 


380  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

"Never!"  cried  the  mother,  desperately;  "I  will  not  allow 
it.  Guy  is  the  eldest.  His  brother  has  acted  meanly.  So 
has  she.  No,  John,  I  will  not  allow  it." 

"You  will  not  allow  what  has  already  happened — what 
Providence  has  permitted  to  happen?  Ursula,  you  forget — 
they  love  one  another." 

This  one  fact — this  solemn  upholding  of  the  pre-eminent 
right  and  law  of  love-~-which  law  John  believed  in,  they 
both  believed  in,  so  sacredly  and  firmly — appeared  to  force 
itself  upon  Mrs.  Halifax's  mind.  Her  passion  subdued. 

"I  cannot  judge  clearly.  You  can — always.  Husband 
help  me." 

"]?oor  wife!— poor  mother!"  he  uttered,  caressing  her, 
and  in  that  caress  himself  all  but  giving  way.  "Alas!  that 
I  should  have  brought  thee  into  such  a  sea  of  trouble." 

Perhaps  he  referred  to  the  circumstance  of  his  bringing 
Miss  Silver  into  our  house;  perhaps  to  his  own  blindness, 
or  want  of  parental  caution,  in  throwing  the  young  people 
continually  together.  However,  John  was  not  one  to  lament 
over  things  inevitable;  or  by  overweening  blame  of  his  own 
want  of  foresight,  to  imply  a  doubt  of  the  foreseeing  of  Prov- 
idence. 

"Love,"  he  said,  "I  fear  we  have  been  too  anxious  to  play 
Deus  ex  machind  with  our  children,  forgetting  in  Whose 
hands  are  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage — life's  crosses 
and  life's  crowns.  Trouble  has  come  when  we  looked  not 
for  it.  We  can  but  try  to  see  the  right  course,  and,  seeing 
it,  to  act  upon  it." 

Ursula  assented — with  a  bursting  heart  it  seemed — but 
still  she  assented,  believing  even  as  in  her  young  days  that 
her  husband's  will  was  wisest,  best. 

He  told  her,  in  few  words,  that  Edwin  had  that  day  con- 
fessed to  his  father;  how  these  two,  being  much  together, 
had  become  attached  to  one  another,  as  young  folks  will- 
couples  whom  no  one  would  ever  think  suited  each  for  each 
— except  Nature,  and  the  instincts  of  their  own  hearts.  Ab- 
sorbed in  this  love — which  Edwin  solemnly  declared  was 
never  openly  declared  till  this  morning — they  neither  of 
them  thought  of  Guy.  And  thus  things  had  befallen — things 
which  no  earthly  power  could  remove  or  obliterate — things 
in  which,  whatever  way  we  looked,  all  seemed  darkness.  We 
could  but  walk  blindly  on,  a  step  at  a  time,  trusting  to  that 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  381 

Faith,  of  which  all  our  lives  past  had  borne  confirmation — 
the  firm  faith  that  evil  itself  is  to  the  simple  and  God-fearing 
but  the  disguised  messenger  of  good. 

Something  like  this  John  said,  talking  as  his  wife  loved 
to  hear  him  talk — every  quiet,  low  word  dropping  like  balm 
upon  her  grieved  heart;  not  trying  to  deceive  her  into  the 
notion  that  pain  is  not  pain,  but  showing  her  how  best  to 
bear  it.  At  length  she  looked  up,  as  if  with  God's  help — and 
her  husband's  comforting — she  could  bear  it. 

"Only  one  thing — Guy  does  not  know.  He  need  not  know 
just  yet — not  till  he  is  stronger.  Surely  Edwin  will  not  tell 
him/' 

"No;  he  promised  me  he  would  not.  Do  not  start  so.  In- 
deed, there  is  no  fear." 

But  that  very  assurance  seemed  to  rouse  it.  She  began 
straining  her  ears  to  catch  the  least  noise  in  the  rooma  over- 
head— the  boys'  rooms.  Guy  and  Walter  shared  one;  Edwin 
had  his  to  himself. 

"They  surely  will  not  meet.  Yet  Guy  sometimes  likes 
sitting  over  Edwin's  fire.  Hark! — was  not  that  the  creaking* 
of  Guy's  room-door?" 

"Love "  detaining  her. 

"I  know,  John.  I  am  not  thinking  of  going.  Guy  might  sus- 
pect something.  No,  indeed,  I  am  not  afraid.  They  were 
always  fond  of  one  another — my  boys." 

She  sat  down,  violently  forcing  herself  not  to  listen,  not 
to  fear.  But  the  truth  was  too  strong  for  her. 

"Hark!  I  am  sure  they  are  talking.  John,  you  said  Ed- 
win promised?" 

"Faithfully  promised." 

"But  if,  by  some  accident,  Guy  found  out  the  truth?  Hark! 
they  are  talking  very  loud.  That  is  a  chair  fallen.  Oh,  John 
— don't  keep  me!  My  boys — my  boys!"  And  she  ran  up- 
stairs in  an  agony. 

What  a  sight  for  a  mother's  eye.  Two  brothers — of  whom 
it  had  been  our  boast  that  from  babyhood  they  had  never 
been  known  to  lift  a  hand  against  each  other — now  strug- 
gling together  like  Cain  and  Abel.  And,  from  the  fury  in 
their  faces,  the  quarrel  might  have  had  a  similar  ending. 

"Guy!  Edwin!"  But  the  motner  might  as  well  have 
?hrieked  to  the  winds. 

The  father  came  and  parted  them,    "Boys,  are  you  gone 


382  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

mad!  fighting  like  brutes  in  this  way.  Shame,  Guy,  Edwin, 
I  trusted  you/' 

"I  could  not  help  it,  father.  He  had  no  right  to  steal 
into  my  room;  no  right  to  snatch  her  letter  from  me." 

"It  was  her  letter,  then?"  cried  Guy,  furiously.  "She 
writes  to  you?  You  were  writing  back  to  her?" 

Edwin  made  no  answer;  but  held  out  his  hand  for  the 
letter,  with  that  look  of  white  passion  in  him  so  rarely  seen 
—perhaps  not  thrice  since  his  infancy.  Guy  took  no  heed. 

"Give  it  me  back,  Guy;  I  warn  you!" 

"Not  till  I  have  read  it.    I  have  a  right." 

"You  have  none.    She  is  mine." 

"Yours?"    Guy  laughed  in  his  face. 

"Yes,  mine.  Ask  my  father — ask  my  mother.  They 
know." 

"Mother!" — the  letter  fell  from  the  poor  lad's  hand. 
"Mother,  you  would  not  deceive  me.  He  only  says  it  to  vex 
me.  I  was  in  a  passion,  I  know.  Mother,  it  isn't  true?" 

His  piteous  tone — the  almost  childish  way  in  which  he 
caught  at  her  sleeve,  as  she  turned  from  him — ah,  poor  Guy! 

"Edwin,  is  it  my  brother  Edwin?  Who  would  have  thought 
it?"  Half-bewildered,  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  us 
all;  but  no  one  spoke,  no  one  contradicted  him. 

Edwin,  his  passion  quite  gone,  stooped  in  a  sorrowful  and 
humble  way  to  pick  up  his  betrothed's  letter.  Then  Guy 
flew  at  him  and  caught  him  by  the  collar. 

"You  coward!  how  dared  you No,  I  won't  hurt  him; 

she  is  fond  of  him.  Go  away,  every  one  of  you.  Oh,  mother, 
mother,  mother!" 

He  fell  on  her  neck,  sobbing.  She  gathered  him  in  her 
arms,  as  she  had  used  to  do  in  his  childhood:  and  so  we  left 
them. 

"As  one  whom  his  mother  comforteth." 

Ay,  prophet  of  Israel,  thou  wert  wise. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

John  and  I  sat  over  the  study  fire  till  long  after  mid- 
night. 

Many  an  anxious  watch  I  had  kept  with  him,  but  none 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  383 

sadder  than  this.  Because  now,  for  the  first  time,  our  house 
was  divided  against  itself.  A  sorrow  had  entered  it,  not 
from  without,  but  from  within — a  sorrow  which  we  could 
not  meet  and  bear  as  a  family.  Alas!  darker  and  darker  had 
the  bitter  truth  forced  itself  upon  us,  that  neither  joy  nor 
affliction  would  ever  find  us  as  a  family  again. 

I  think  all  parents  must  feel  cruelly  a  pang  like  this — 
the  first  trouble  in  which  they  cannot  help  their  children — 
the  first  time  when  those  children  must  learn  to  stand  alone, 
each  for  himself,  compelled  to  carry  his  own  burden,  and 
work  out,  well  or  ill,  his  individual  life.  When  the  utmost 
the  wisest  or  tenderest  father  can  do  is  to  keep  near  with 
outstretched  hand  that  the  child  may  cling  to,  assured  of 
finding  sympathy,  counsel,  and  love. 

If  this  father  had  stood  aloof  all  his  life,  on  some  pinnacle 
of  paternal  "pride,"  paternal  "dignity" — if  he  had  not  made 
himself  his  boys'  companion,  counsellor,  and  friend,  how 
great  would  have  been  his  terrors  now! 

For,  as  we  both  knew  well — too  well  to  trust  ourselves 
to  say  it — if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  that  ruins  a 
lad,  drives  him  to  desperation,  shuts  the  door  upon  him,  and 
opens  many  another  door,  of  which  the  entrance  is  the  very 
gate  of  hell — it  is  such  a  disappointment  as  this  which  had 
happened  to  our  Guy. 

His  father  saw  it  all.  Saw  it  clearer,  crueller,  than  even 
his  mother  could  see.  Yet,  when,  very  late,  almost  at  dawn, 
she  came  in,  with  tidings  that  Guy  was  himself  again  now 
— sleeping  as  quietly  as  a  child — her  husband  was  able  to 
join  in  her  deep  thankfulness,  and  give  her  hope  for  the  days 
to  come. 

"But  what  is  to  be  done  with  Guy?" 

"God  knows,"  John  answered.  But  his  tone  expressed  a 
meaning  different  from  that  generally  conveyed  in  the  words; 
a  meaning  which  the  mother  caught  at  once  and  rested  on. 

"Ay — you  are  right.  He  knows!"  And  so  they  went  away 
together,  almost  content. 

Next  morning  I  woke  late;  the  sunshine  falling  across  iny 
bed,  and  the  sparrows  chattering  loud  in  the  ivy.  I  had  been 
dreaming,  with  a  curious  pertinacity,  of  the  old  days  at  Eose 
Cottage,  the  days  when  John  first  fell  in  love  with  Ursula. 

"Uncle  Phineas!"  I  heard  myself  called. 

It  was  John's  son,  who  sat  opposite,  with  wan,  wild  eyes, 


384  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

and  a  settled  anguish  on  his  mouth — that  merry,  handsome 
mouth — the  only  really  handsome  mouth  in  the  family. 

"You  are  up  early,  my  boy." 

"What  was  the  good  of  lying  in  bed?  I  am  not  ill.  Be- 
sides I  wish  to  go  about  as  usual.  I  don't  wish  anybody  to 
think  that — that  I  care." 

He  stopped — evidently  fighting  hard  against  himself.  A 
new  lesson,  alas!  for  our  Guy. 

"Was  I  too  violent  last  night  ?  I  did  not  mean  it.  I  mean 
to  be  a  man.  Not  the  first  man  whom  a  lady  has  refused — 
eh?"  And  braving  it  out,  he  began  to  whistle;  but  the  lips 
fell,  the  frank  brow  grew  knotted  with  pain.  The  lad  broke 
into  a  passion  of  misery. 

The  chief  business  was,  that  he  had  been  deceived.  Un- 
wittingly, we  well  believed — but  still  deceived.  Many  little 
things  he  told  me — Guy's  was  a  nature  that  at  once  spent 
and  soothed  itself  by  talking — of  Miss  Silver's  extreme  gen- 
tleness and  kindness  toward  him;  a  kindness  which  seemed 
so  like,  so  cruelly  like  love. 

"Love!  Oh,  she  loved  me.  She  told  me  so.  Of  course! 
I  was  Edwin's  brother." 

Ay,  there  was  the  sting,  which  never  could  be  removed, 
which  might  rankle  in  the  boy's  heart  for  life.  He  had  not 
only  lost  his  love,  but  what  is  more  precious  than  love — 
faith  in  womankind.  He  began  to  make  light  of  his  losings 
— to  think  the  prize  was  not  so  great  after  all.  He  sat  on 
my  bed,  singing — Guy  had  a  fine  voice  and  ear — singing,  out 
of  mockery,  songs  which  I  had  an  especial  aversion  to — 
light  songs  written  by  an  Irishman,  Mr.  Thomas  Moore, 
about  girls  and  wine,  and  being  "far  from  the  lips  we  love," 
but  always  ready  enough  "to  make  love  to  the  lips  we  are 
near."  Then,  laughing  at  me,  he  threw  up  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

I  think  it  was  wrong  of  those  two,  wrong  and  selfish,  as 
all  lovers  are — young  lovers  in  the  flush  of  their  happiness; 
I  think  it  was  cruel  of  Edwin  and  Louise  to  walk  up  and 
down  there,  in  the  elder  brother's  very  eyes. 

For  a  moment  he  struggled  against  his  passion. 

"Uncle  Phineas,  just  look  here.  How  charming!  Ha! 
ha!  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  couple  of  fools?" 

Fools,  maybe,  but  happy;  happy  to  the  very  core — thor- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  385 

oughly   engrossed  in   their  happiness.     The  elder  brother 
was  almost  maddened  by  it. 

"He  must  mind  what  he  does — tell  him  so,  Uncle  Phineas 
— it  will  be  safer.  He  must  mind,  or  I  will  not  answer  for 
myself.  I  was  fond  of  Edwin — I  was  indeed — but  now  it 
seems  sometimes  as  if  I  hated  him." 

"Guy!" 

"Oh,  if  it  had  been  a  stranger,  and  not  he!  If  it  had  been 
any  one  in  the  world  except  my  brother!" 

And  in  that  bitter  cry  the  lad's  heart  melted  again;  it  was 
such  a  tender  heart — his  mother's  heart. 

After  a  time  he  recovered  himself  and  came  down  with 
me 'to  breakfast,  as  he  had  insisted  upon  doing;  met  them 
all,  even  Miss  Silver — and  Edwin,  who  had  placed  himself 
by  her  side  with  an  air  of  right.  These  lovers,  however 
deeply  grieved  they  looked — and,  to  do  them  justice,  it  was 
really  so — needed  not  to  be  grieved  over  by  any  of  us. 

Nor,  looking  at  the  father,  and  the  mother,  would  we  have 
dared  to  grieve  over  them.  In  the  silent  watches  of  the  night, 
heart  to  heart,  husband  and  wife  had  taken  counsel  together; 
together  had  carried  their  sorrow  to  the  only  Lightener  of 
burdens.  It  seemed  that  theirs  was  lightened;  that  even 
in  this  strange  entanglement  of  fate  they  were  able  to  wait 
patiently — trusting  unto  the  Almighty  mercy  not  only  them- 
selves, but  the  children  he  had  given  them. 

When,  breakfast  being  over,  John,  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, read  the  chapter  and  the  prayer — no  one  rose  up  or 
went  out;  no  one  refused,  even  in  this  anguish  of  strife,  jeal- 
ousy and  disunion,  to  repeat  after  him  the  "Our  Father"  of 
their  childhood. 

1  believe  every  one  of  us  remembered  for  years,  with  an 
awe  that  was  not  altogether  pain,  this  morning's  chapter  and 
prayer. 

When  it  was  ended  worldly  troubles  closed  round  us 
again. 

Nothing  seemed  natural.  We  hung  about  in  twos  and 
threes,  uncertain  what  to  do.  Guy  walked  up  and  down 
alone.  His  mother  asked  him  if,  seeing  his  foot  was  so  well, 
he  would  like  to  go  down  to  the  mills  as  usual;  but  he  de- 
clined. Miss  Silver  made  some  suggestion  about  "lessons," 
which  Edwin  jealously  negatived  immediately,  and  proposed 
that  she  and  Maud  should  take  a  drive  somewhere. 


386  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Mrs.  Halifax  eagerly  assented.  "Lady  Oldtower  has  been 
wanting  them  both  for  some  time.  You  would  like  to  go, 
would  you  not,  for  a  day  or  two?"  said  she,  addressing  the 
governess. 

Guy  caught  at  this.    "Going  away,  are  you?    When?" 

He  put  the  question  to  Miss  Silver  direct — his  eyes  blaz- 
ing right  into  her  own.  She  made  some  confused  reply  about 
"leaving  immediately." 

"In  the  carriage,  of  course?  Shall  I  have  the  honor  of 
driving  you?" 

"No,"  said  Edwin  decisively. 

A  fierce  vindictive  look  passed  between  the  brothers — a 
look  terrible  in  itself — more  terrible  in  its  warning  of  days 
to  come.  No  wonder  the  mother  shuddered;  no  wonder  the 
young  betrothed,  pale  and  alarmed,  slipped  out  of  the  room. 
Edwin  followed  her.  Then  Guy,  snatching  up  his  sister, 
lifted  her  roughly  on  his  knee. 

"Come  along,  Maud.  You'll  be  my  girl  now.  Nobody  else 
wants  you.  Kiss  me,  child." 

But  the  little  lady  drew  back. 

"So  you  hate  me  too?  Edwin  has  been  teaching  you? 
Very  well.  Get  away,  you  cheat!" 

He  pushed  her  violently  aside.    Maud  began  to  cry. 

Her  father  looked  up  from  his  book — the  book  he  had 
not  been  reading,  though  he  had  seemingly  thought  it  best 
to  take  no  notice  of  what  was  passing  around  him. 

"Come  here,  Maud,  my  child.  Guy,  you  should  not  be 
unkind  to  your  little  sister.  Try  and  command  yourself, 
my  dear  boy." 

The  words,  spoken  gently,  almost  in  a  whisper,  were  more 
than  the  lad's  chafed  spirit  could  brook. 

"Father,  you  insult  me!  I  will  not  bear  it!  I  will  quit  the 
room!" 

He  went  out,  shutting  the  door  passionately  after  him. 
His  mother  rose  up  to  follow  him;  then  sat  down  again.  The 
eyes  that  she  lifted  to  her  husband  were  deprecating,  be- 
seeching, heavy  with  a  speechless  pain. 

For  John — he  said  nothing.  Not  though,  as  was  plain  to 
see,  this,  the  first  angry  or  disreepectful  word  he  had  ever  re- 
ceived from  any  one  of  his  children,  struck  him  like  an  ar- 
row; for  a  moment  stirred  him  even  to  wrath — holy  wrath — 
the  just  displeasure  of  a  father  who  feels  that  the  least  por- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  387 

tion  of  his  child's  sin  is  the  sin  against  him.  Perhaps  this  very 
feeling,  distinct  from,  and  far  beyond  all  personal  indigna- 
tion, all  sense  of  offended  dignity,  made  the  anger  strangely 
brief — so  brief,  that  when  the  other  children,  awed  and  start- 
led, looked  for  some  ebullition  of  it,  lo!  it  was  all  gone.  In 
its  stead  was  something  at  which  the  children,  more  awed 
still,  crept  out  of  the  room. 

Ursula  even,  alarmed,  looked  in  his  face  as  if  for  the  first 
time  she  could  not  comprehend  her  husband. 

"John,  you  should  forgive  poor  Guy;  he  did  not  intend  any 
harm." 

"No,  no." 

"And  he  is  so  very  miserable.  Never  before  did  he  fail 
in  his  duty  to  you." 

"But  what  if  I  have  failed  in  mine  to  him?  What  if — 
you  used  to  say  I  could  not  understand  Guy — what  if  I  have 
come  short  toward  him?  I,  that  am  accountable  to  God  for 
every  one  of  my  children." 

"John,  John;"  she  knelt  down  and  put  her  arms  round 
his  neck.  "Husband,  do  not  look  unhappy.  I  did  not  mean 
to  blame  you — we  may  be  wrong,  both  of  us — all  of  us.  But 
we  will  not  be  afraid.  We  know  Who  pities  us,  even  as  we 
pity  our  children." 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  more  to  the  same  purport;  but  it 
was  a  long  time  before  her  words  brought  any  consolation. 
Then  the  parents  talked  together,  trying  to  arrange  some 
plan  whereby  Guy's  mind  might  be  occupied  and  soothed, 
or  else  Edwin  removed  out  of  his  sight  for  a  little  while. 
Once  I  hinted  at  the  advantage  of  Guy's  leaving  home,  but 
Mrs.  Halifax  seemed  to  shrink  from  this  project  as  though 
it  were  a  foreboding  of  perpetual  exile. 

"No,  no;  anything  but  that.  Besides  Guy  would  not  wish 
it.  He  has  never  left  me  in  his  life.  His  going  would  seem 
like  the  general  breaking  up  of  the  family." 

Alas!  she  did  not,  would  not  see  that  the  family  was  al- 
ready "broken."  Broken  more  than  either  absence,  mar- 
riage, or  death  itself  could  have  effected. 

One  thing  more  we  had  to  consider — a  thing  at  once  nat- 
ural and  right  in  any  family,  namely,  how  to  hide  its  wounds 
from  the  chattering,  scandalous  world.  And  so,  when  by 
a  happy  chance  there  came  over  that  morning  our  good 
friend  Lady  Oldtower  and  her  carriage  full  of  daughters, 


388  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Mrs.  Halifax  communicated  with  a  simple  dignity  that 
quelled  all  comment,  the  fact  of  "my  son  Edwin's  engage- 
ment," and  accepted  the  invitation  for  Maud  and  Miss  Sil- 
ver, which  was  willingly  repeated  and  pressed. 

One  thing  I  noticed,  that  in  speaking  of  or  to  the  girl  who 
in  a  single  day  from  merely  the  governess  had  become,  and 
was  sedulously  treated  as  our  own,  Mrs.  Halifax  invariably 
called  her,  as  heretofore,  "Miss  Silver/'  or  "my  dear,"  never 
by  any  chance  "Louise,"  or  "Mademoiselle  D'Argent." 

Before  she  left  Beechwood,  Edwin  came  in  and  hurriedly 
spoke  to  his  mother.  What  he  said  was  evidently  painful  to 
both. 

"I  am  not  aware  of  it,  Edwin;  I  had  not  the  slightest  in- 
tention of  offending  her.  Is  she  already  made  your  judge 
and  referee  as  to  the  actions  of  your  mother?" 

Edwin  was  a  good  lad,  though  perhaps  a  little  less  loving 
than  the  rest  of  the  boys.  His  self-restraint,  his  exceeding 
patience,  lulled  the  threatened  storm. 

"But  you  will  be  kind  to  her,  mother — I  know  you  will." 

"Did  I  not  say  so?" 

"And  may  I  bring  her  to  you  here?" 

"If  you  choose." 

It  was  the  first  open  recognition  between  the  mother  and 
her  son's  betrothed.  Their  other  meeting  had  been  in  public, 
when,  with  a  sedulous  dread,  both  had  behaved  exactly  as 
usual,  and  no  word  or  manner  had  betrayed  their  altered  re- 
lations. Now,  when  for  the  first  time  it  was  needful  for 
Miss  Silver  to  be  received  as  a  daughter  elect,  with  all  the 
natural  sympathy  due  from  one  woman  to  another  under 
similar  circumstances,  all  the  warmth  of  kindness  due  from 
a  mother  to  her  son's  chosen  wife — then  the  want,  the  mourn- 
ful want,  made  itself  felt. 

Mrs.  Halifax  stood  at  the  dining-room  window,  trying 
vainly  to  regain  self-control. 

"If  I  could  only  love  her.  If  only  she  had  made  me  love 
her!"  she  muttered  over  and  over  again. 

I  hoped  from  the  bottom  of  my  soul  that  Edwin  had  not 
heard  her — had  not  seen  her  involuntarily  recoil,  as  he  led  to 
his  mother  his  handsome  girl  that  he  seemed  so  proud  of,  his 
happy  affianced  wife.  Happiness  melts  some  natures  like 
spring  and  sunshine.  Louise  looked  up  with  swimming  eyes, 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  389 

"Oh,  be  kind  to  me!  Nobody  was  ever  kind  to  me  till 
I  came  here!" 

The  good  heart  gave  way.    Mrs.  Halifax  opened  her  arms. 

"Be  true  to  Edwin — love  Edwin,  and  I  shall  love  you — 
I  am  sure  I  shall." 

Kissing  her  once  or  twice,  the  mother  let  fall  a  few  tears; 
then  sat  down,  still  keeping  the  girl's  hand,  and  busying  her- 
self with  various  little  kindnesses  about  her. 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  well  wrapped  up?  Edwin,  see  that 
she  has  my  fur  cloak  in  the  carriage.  What  cold  fingers! 
Have  some  wine  before  you  start,  my  dear." 

Miss  Silver  altogether  melted;  sobbing,  she  murmured 
something  about  forgiveness. 

"Nay,  did  I  say  a  word  about  forgiveness?  Then  do  not 
you.  Let  us  be  patient — we  shall  all  be  happy  in  time." 

"And  Guy?" 

"Guy  will  be  himself  soon,"  returned  the  mother,  rather 
proudly.  "We  will  not  mention  him,  if  you  please,  my  dear." 

At  this  moment  Guy  must  have  heard  the  carriage  wheels 
and  guessed  Miss  Silver  was  going,  for  he  appeared  at  the 
parlor  door.  He  found  his  mother  toying  with  Miss  Silver's 
hand — Edwin  standing  by,  proud  and  glad,  with  his  arm 
clasped  round  Louise. 

He  did  not  remove  it.  In  his  brother's  very  face — per- 
haps because  of  the  expression  of  that  face — the  lover  held 
fast  his  own. 

Mrs.  Halifax  rose  up,  alarmed.  "She  is  just  going,  Guy. 
Shake  hands  and  bid  her  good-by." 

The  girl's  hand,  which  was  sorrowfully  and  kindly  ex- 
tended, Guy  snatched  and  held  fast. 

"Let  her  pass,"  cried  Edwin,  angrily. 

"Most  certainly.  I  have  not  the  least  wish  to  detain  her. 
Good-by!  A  pleasant  journey!"  And  still  keeping  her  hand, 
he  gazed  with  burning  eyes  on  the  features  he  had  so  loved 
— as  boys  do  love — with  a  wild,  imaginative  passion,  kindled 
by  beauty  alone.  "I  shall  claim  my  right,  just  for  once — may 
I,  sister  Louise?" 

With  a  glance  of  defiance  at  Edwin,  Guy  caught  his 
brother's  betrothed  round  the  waist  and  kissed  her — once — 
twice — savagely. 

It  was  done  so  suddenly  and  under  such  an  ingenious  dis- 
guise of  "right,"  that  open  vengeance  was  impossible.  But 


390  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

as  Edwin  hurried  Louise  away,  the  look  that  passed  between 
the  two  young  men  was  enough  to  blot  out  henceforward 
all  friendship,  all  brotherhood.  That  insult  would  never  be 
forgotten. 

She  was  gone — the  house  was  free  of  her  and  Edwin  too. 
Guy  was  left  alone  with  me  and  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Halifax  sat  sewing.  She  seemed  to  take  no  note  of 
his  comings  and  goings,  his  restless  starts,  his  fits  of  dark 
musing,  when  his  face  grew  like  the  face  of  some  stranger, 
some  one  whom  she  would  have  shrunk  from — any  one  but 
our  own  merry  Guy. 

"Mother" — the  voice  startled  me — such  irritable,  intoler- 
able bitterness  marred  its  once  pleasant  tones.  "When  do 
they  come  back!" 

"Do  you  mean " 

"I  mean  those  people." 

"In  a  week  or  so.  Your  brother  returns  to-night,  of 
course." 

"My  brother,  eh?    Better  not  say  it — it's  an  ugly  word." 

Mrs.  Halifax  attempted  no  reproof;  she  knew  that  it  would 
have  been  useless — worse  than  useless — then. 

"Mother,"  Guy  said  at  last,  coming  up  and  leaning  against 
her  chair,  "you  must  let  me  go." 

"Where,  my  son?" 

"Anywhere — out  of  their  sight — those  two.  You  see,  I 
cannot  bear  it.  It  maddens  me — makes  me  wicked — makes 
me  not  myself.  Or  rather  makes  me  truly  myself,  which  is 
altogether  wicked." 

"No,  Guy — no,  my  own  boy.  Have  patience — all  this  will 
pass  away." 

"It  might,  if  I  had  anything  to  do.  Mother,"  kneeling 
down  by  her  with  a  piteous  gaze,  "mother,  you  need  not 
look  so  wretched.  I  wouldn't  harm  Edwin — would  not  take 
from  him  his  happiness;  but  to  live  in  sight  of  it  day  after 
day,  hour  after  hour — I  can't  do  it!  Do  not  ask  me — let  me 
get  away." 

"But  where?" 

"Anywhere,  as  I  said;  only  let  me  go  far  away  from  them, 
where  no  possible  news  of  them  can  reach  me.  In  some 
place,  oh,  mother  darling!  where  I  can  trouble  no  one  and 
make  no  one  miserable." 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  391 

The  mother  feebly  shook  her  head.  As  if  such  a  spot  could 
be  found  on  earth,  while  she  lived! 

But  she  saw  that  Guy  was  right.  To  expect  him  to  re- 
main at  home  was  cruelty.  As  he  had  said,  he  could  not  bear 
it — few  could;  few  even  among  women — of  men  much  fewer. 
One  great  renunciation  is  possible,  sometimes  easy,  as  death 
may  be;  but  to  "die  daily?"  In  youth,  too,  with  all  the  pas- 
sions vehement,  the  self-knowledge  and  the  self-control 
small?  No;  Nature  herself,  in  that  universal  desire  to  es- 
cape, which  comes  with  such  a  trial,  hints  at  the  unnatural- 
ness  of  the  ordeal;  in  which,  soon  or  late,  the  weak  become 
paralyzed  or  callous;  the  strong — God  help  them! — are  apt 
to  turn  wicked. 

Guy's  instinct  of  flight  was,  his  mother  felt,  wisest,  safest, 
best. 

"My  boy,  you  shall  have  your  desire;  you  shall  go." 

I  had  not  expected  it  of  her — at  least,  not  so  immediately. 
I  had  thought,  bound  up  in  him  as  she  was,  accustomed  to  his 
daily  sight,  his  daily  fondness — for  he  was  more  with  her,  and 
"petted"  her  more  than  any  other  of  the  children — I  had 
thought  to  have  seen  some  reluctance,  some  grieved  entreaty 
— but  no!  Not  even  when,  gaining  her  consent,  the  boy 
looked  up  as  if  her  allowing  him  to  quit  her  was  the  greatest 
kindness  she  had  ever  in  his  life  bestowed. 

"And  when  shall  I  go?" 

"Whenever  you  choose." 

"To-day,  perhaps,  I  might  get  away  to-day?" 

"You  can,  if  you  wish,  my  dear  boy." 

But  no  sooner  had  she  said  it,  than  the  full  force  and  mean- 
ing of  the  renunciation  seemed  to  burst  upon  her.  Her  fin- 
gers, which  had  been  smoothing  Guy's  hand  as  it  lay  on  her 
lap,  tightly  closed  round  it;  with  the  other  hand  she  put  back 
his  hair,  gazing — gazing  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  part  with 
them. 

"Guy — oh,  Guy,  my  heart  is  breaking!  Promise  that  you 
will  try  to  be  yourself  again — that  you  will  never  be  anything 
other  than  my  own  good  boy  if  I  agree  to  let  you  go?"  What 
he  answered,  or  what  further  passed  between  them,  was  not 
for  me  either  to  hear  or  know.  I  left  the  room  immediately. 

When,  sometime  after  John's  hour  for  returning  from  the 
mills,  I  also  returned  to  the  house,  I  found  that  everything 
was  settled  for  Guy's  immediate  departure. 


392  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

There  was  some  business  in  Spain — something  about  An- 
dalusian  wool — which  his  father  made  the  ostensible  reason 
for  the  journey.  It  would  occupy  him  and  distract  his  mind, 
besides  giving  him  constant  necessity  of  change.  And  they 
say  travel  is  the  best  cure  for  the  heartache.  We  hoped  it 
might  prove  so. 

Perhaps  the  sorest  point,  and  one  that  had  been  left  un- 
decided till  both  parents  saw  that  in  Guy's  present  mood  any 
opposition  was  hurtful,  even  dangerous,  was  the  lad's  obsti- 
nate determination  to  depart  alone.  He  refused  his  mother's 
companionship  to  London,  even  his  father's  across  the  coun- 
try to  the  nearest  point  where  one  of  those  new  and  dangerous 
things  called  railways  tempted  travelers  to  their  destruction. 
But  Guy  would  go  by  it — the  maddest  and  strangest  way  of 
locomotion  pleased  him  best.  So  it  was  settled  he  should  go, 
as  he  pleaded,  this  very  day. 

A  strange  day  it  seemed — long  and  yet  how  short!  Mrs. 
Halifax  was  incessantly  busy.  I  caught  sight  of  her  now  and 
then,  flitting  from  room  to  room,  with  Guy's  books  in  her 
hand,  Guy's  linen  thrown  across  her  arm.  Sometimes  she 
stood  a  few  minutes  by  the  window,  doing  a  few  stitches  of 
necessary  work,  which,  when  even  nurse  Watkins  offered  to 
do — Jenny,  who  had  been  a  rosy  lass  when  Guy  was  born — she 
refused  abruptly,  and  went  stitching  on. 

There  were  no  regular  meals  that  day;  better  not,  perhaps. 
I  saw  John  come  up  to  his  wife  as  she  stood  sewing,  and 
"bring  her  a  piece  of  bread  and  a  glass  of  wine,  but  she  could 
not  touch  either. 

"Mother,  try/'  whispered  Guy,  mournfully.  "What  will 
become  of  me  if  I  have  made  you  ill?" 

"Oh,  no  fear,  no  fear!"  She  smiled,  took  the  wine  and 
swallowed  it — broke  off  a  bit  of  the  bread,  and  went  on  with 
her  work. 

The  last  hour  or  two  passed  so  confusedly  that  I  do  not  well 
remember  them.  I  can  only  call  to  mind  seeing  Guy  and  his 
mother  everywhere  side  by  side,  doing  everything  together  as 
if  grudging  each  instant  remaining  till  the  final  instant  came. 
I  have  also  a  vivid  impression  of  her  astonishing  composure, 
of  her  calm  voice  when  talking  to  Guy  about  indefinite  trifles, 
or,  though  that  was  seldom,  to  any  other  of  us.  It  never  fal- 
tered— never  lost  its  rich,  round,  cheerfulness  of  tone:  as  if 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  393 

she  wished  him  to  carry  it  as  such,  and  no  other — the  familiar 
mother's  voice — in  his  memory  across  the  seas. 

Once  only  it  grew  sharp,  when  Walter,  who  hovered  about 
disconsolately,  knelt  down  to  fasten  his  brother's  portman- 
teau. 

"No!     Let  go!     I  can  do  everything  myself." 

And  now  the  time  was  fast  flying — her  boy  must  depart. 

All  the  household  collected  in  the  hall  to  bid  Mr.  Guy  good- 
by — Mr.  Guy,  whom  everybody  was  so  fond  of.  They  be- 
lieved— which  was  all  that  any  one,  save  ourselves,  ever  knew 
— that  sudden  business  h#d  called  him  away  on  a  long  and 
anxious  journey.  They  lingered  about  him,  respectful!!)7, 
with  eager,  honest  blessings,  such  as  it  was  good  the  lad  should 
have — good  that  he  should  bear  away  with  him  from  England 
and  from  home.  _ 

Finally,  Guy,  his  father  and  his  mother,  went  into  the  study 
by  themselves.  Soon  even  his  father  came  out  and  shut  the 
door,  that  there  should  not  be  a  single  witness  to  the  last 
words  between  mother  and  son.  These  being  over,  they 
both  came  into  the  hall  together,  brave  and  calm — which 
calmness  was  maintained  even  to  the  last  good-by. 

Thus  we  sent  our  Guy  away,  cheerfully  and  with  blessings 
— away  into  the  wide,  dangerous  world;  alone,  with  no  guard 
or  restraint,  except  (and  in  that  except  lay  the  whole  mystery 
of  our  cheerfulness)  the  fear  of  God,  his  father's  counsels,  and 
his  mother's  prayers. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Two  years  rolled  over  Beechwood — two  eventful  years. 
The  last  of  the  children  ceased  to  be  a  child;  and  we  pre- 
pared for  that  great  era  in  all  household  history,  the  first 
marriage  in  the  family.  It  was  to  be  celebrated  very  quietly, 
as  Edwin  and  Louise  both  desired.  Time  had  healed  over 
many  a  pang,  and  taught  many  a  soothing  lesson;  still,  it 
could  not  be  supposed  that  this  marriage  was  without  its 
painfulness. 

Guy  still  remained  abroad;  his  going  had  produced  the 
happy  result  intended.  Month  after  month  his  letters  came, 
each  more  hopeful  than  the  last,  each  bringing  balm  to  the 
mother's  heart.  Then  he  wrote  to  others  beside  his  mother; 


394  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Maud  and  Walter  replied  to  him  in  long  home  histories,  and 
began  to  talk  without  hesitation — nay,  with  great  pride  and 
pleasure — "of  my  brother  who  is  abroad." 

The  family  wound  was  closing,  the  family  peace  about  to 
be  restored;  Maud  even  fancied  Guy  ought  to  come  home  to 
"our  wedding;"  but  then  she  had  never  been  told  the  whole 
of  past  circumstances;  and,  besides,  she  was  still  too 
young  to  understand  love-matters.  Yet  so  mercifully  had 
time  smoothed  down  all  things  that  it  sometimes  appeared 
even  to  us  elders  as  if  those  three  days  of  bitterness  were  a 
mere  dream — as  if  the  year  we  dreaded  had  passed  as  calmly 
as  any  other  year.  Save  that  in  this  interval  Ursula's  hair  had 
begun  to  turn  from  brown  to  gray;  and  John  first  mentioned, 
so  cursorily  that  I  cannot  even  now  remember  when  or  where, 
that  slight  pain,  almost  too  slight  to  complain  of,  which  he 
said  warned  him  in  climbing  Enderley  Hill  that  he  could  not 
climb  so  fast  as  when  he  was  young.  And  I  returned  his 
smile,  telling  him  we  were  evidently  growing  old  men,  and 
must  soon  set  our  faces  to  descend  the  hill  of  life.  Easy 
enough  I  was  in  saying  this,  thinking  as  1  often  did,  with 
great  content,  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  doubt  which  of 
us  would  reach  the  bottom  first. 

Yet  I  was  glad  to  have  safely  passed  my  half  century  of 
life — glad  to  have  seen  many  of  John's  cares  laid  to  rest,  more 
especially  those  external  troubles  which  I  have  not  lately  re- 
ferred to — for,  indeed,  they  were  absorbed  and  forgotten  in 
the  home-troubles  that  came  after.  He  had  lived  down  all 
slanders,  as  he  said  he  would.  Far  and  near  traveled  the 
story  of  the  day  when  Jessop's  bank  was  near  breaking;  far 
and  near,  though  secretly — for  we  found  it  out  chiefly  by  its 
results — poor  people  whispered  the  tale  of  a  gentleman  who 
had  been  attacked  on  the  high-roads,  and  whose  only  attempt 
at  bringing  the  robbers  to  justice  was  to  help  the  widow  of  one 
and  send  the  others  safe  out  of  the  country  at  his  own  ex- 
pense, not  government's.  None  of  these  were  notable  or 
showy  deeds — scarcely  one  of  them  got,  even  under  the  dis- 
guise of  asterisks,  into  the  newspaper;  the  Norton  Bury  Mer- 
cury, for  its  last  dying  sting,  still  complained  (and  very 
justly),  that  there  was  not  a  gentleman  in  the  county  whose 
name  so  seldom  headed  a  charity  subscription  as  that  of  John 
Halifax,  Esquire,  of  Beechwood.  But  the  right  made  its 
way,  as,  soon  or  late,  the  right  always  does;  he  believed  his 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  395 

good  name  was  able  to  defend  itself,  and  it  did  defend  itself; 
he  had  faith  in  the  only  victory  worth  having — the  universal 
victory  of  Truth;  and  truth  conquered  at  last. 

To  drive  him  across  the  country — he  never  carried  pistols 
now — or  to  walk  with  him,  as  one  day  before  Edwin's  wed- 
ding we  walked,  a  goodly  procession,  through  the  familiar 
streets  of  Xorton  Bury,  was  a  perpetual  pleasure  to  the  rest 
of  the  family.  Everybody  knew  him,  everybody  greeted  him, 
everybody  smiled  as  he  passed — as  though  his  presence  and 
his  recognition  were  good  things  to  have  and  to  win.  His 
wife  often  laughed,  and  said  she  doubted  whether  even  Mr. 
O'Connell  of  Derryname,  who  was  just  now  making  a  com- 
motion in  Ireland,  lighting  the  fire  of  religious  and  political 
discord  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  County  Clare — she 
doubted  if  even  Daniel  O'Connell  had  more  popularity  among 
his  own  people  than  John  Halifax  had  in  the  primitive  neigh- 
borhood where  he  had  lived  so  long. 

Mrs.  Halifax  herself  was  remarkably  gay  this  morning. 
She  had  had  letters  from  Guy;  together  with  a  lovely  pres- 
ent, for  which  he  said  he  had  ransacked  all  the  magasins  dex 
modes  in  Paris — a  white  embroidered  China  shawl.  It  had 
arrived  this  morning — Lord  Raveiiel  being  the  bearer.  This 
was  not  the  first  time  by  many  that  he  had  brought  us  news 
of  our  Guy,  and  thereby  made  himself  welcome  at  Beech- 
wood.  More  welcome  than  he  might  have  been  otherwise: 
for  his  manner  of_life  was  so  different  from  ours.  Not  that 
Lord  Ravenel  could  be  accused  of  any  liKeness  to  his  father; 
but  blood  is  blood,  and  education  and  habits  are  not  to  be 
easily  overcome.  The  boys  laughed  at  him  for  his  aristocratic, 
Janguid  ways;  Maud  teased  him  for  his  mild  cynicism  and 
the  little  interest  he  seemed  to  take  in  anything;  while  the 
mother  herself  was  somewhat  restless  about  his  coming,  won- 
dering what  possible  good  his  acquaintance  could  do  to  us,  or 
ours  to  him,  seeing  we  moved  in  totally  different  spheres. 
But  John  himself  was  invariably  kind,  nay,  tender  over  him 
—we  all  guessed  Avhy.  And  perhaps  even  had  not  the  young 
man  had  so  many  good  points,  while  his  faults  were  more 
negations  than  positive  ill  qualities,  we  likewise  should  have 
been  tender  over  him — for  Muriel's  sake. 

He  had  arrived  at  Beechwood  this  morning,  and  falling 
as  usual  into  our  family  routine,  had  come  with  us  to  Nor- 
ton Bury.  He  looked  up  with  more  interest  than  usual  in 


396  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

his  pensive  eyes  as  he  crossed  the  threshold  of  our  old  house, 
and  told  Maud  how  he  had  come  there  many  years  ago  with 
his  father. 

"That  was  the  first  time  I  ever  met  your  father,"  I  over- 
heard him  say  to  Maud,  not  without  feeling;  as  if  he  thought 
he  owed  fate  some  gratitude  for  the  meeting. 

Mrs.  Halifax,  in  the  casual  civil  inquiry  which  was  all  the 
old  earl  ever  won  in  our  house,  asked  after  the  health  of  Lord 
Luxmore. 

"He  is  still  at  Compiegne.  Does  not  Guy  mention  him? 
Lord  Luxmore  takes  the  greatest  pleasure  in  Guy's  society." 

By  her  start  this  was  evidently  new  and  not  welcome  tid- 
ings to  Guy's  mother.  No  wonder.  Any  mother  in  England 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  thought  that  her  best-beloved 
son — especially  a  young  man  of  Guy's  temperament,  and  un- 
der Guy's  present  circumstances — was  thrown  into  the  socie- 
ty which  now  surrounded  the  debauched  dotage  of  the  too 
notorious  Earl  of  Luxmore. 

"My  son  did  not  mention  it.  He  has  been  too  much  oc- 
cupied in  business  matters  to  write  home  frequently  since 
he  reached  Paris.  However,  his  stay  there  is  limited;"  and 
this  seemed  to  relieve  her.  "I  doubt  if  he  will  have  much 
time  left  to  visit  Compiegne." 

She  said  no  more  than  this,  of  course,  to  Lord  Luxmore's 
son;  but  her  disquiet  was  sufficiently  apparent. 

"It  was  I  who  brought  your  son  to  Compiegne — where  he 
is  a  universal  favorite,  from  his  Wit  and  liveliness.  I  know 
no  one  who  is  a  more  pleasant  companion  than  Guy." 

Guy's  mother  bowed,  but  coldly. 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Halifax,  you  are  aware  that  the  earl's  tastes 
and  mine  differ  widely — have  always  differed.  But  he  is  an 
old  man,  and  I  am  his  only  son.  He  likes  to  see  me  some- 
times, and  I  go;  though,  I  must  confess,  I  take  little  pleas- 
ure in  the  circle  he  has  around  him." 

"In  which  circle,  as  I  understand,  my  son  is  constantly  in- 
cluded?" 

"Why  not?  It  is  a  very  brilliant  circle.  The  whole  court 
of  Charles  Dix  can  afford  none  more  amusing.  For  the  rest, 
what  matters?  One  learns  to  take  things  as  they  seem,  with- 
out peering  below  the  surface.  One  wearies  of  impotent 
Quixotism  against  unconquerable  evils." 

"That  is  not  our  creed  at  Beechwood,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax, 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  397 

abruptly,  as  she  ceased  the  conversation.  But  ever  and  anon 
it  seemed  to  recur  to  her  mind;  ay,  through  all  the  mirth 
of  the  young  people,  all  the  graver  pleasure  which  the  father 
took  in  the  happiness  of  his  son  Edwin;  his  good  son,  who 
had  never  given  him  a  single  care.  He  declared  that  this  set- 
tling of  Edwin  had  been  to  him  almost  like  the  days  when 
he  himself  used  to  come  of  evenings,  hammer  in  hand,  to 
put  up  shelves  in  the  house,  or  nail  the  currant-bushes 
against  the  wall,  doing  everything  con  amore,  and  with  the 
utmost  care,  knowing  it  would  come  under  the  quick,  observ- 
ant eye  of  Ursula  March. 

"That  is,  of  Ursula  Halifax — for  I  don't  chink  I  let  her 
see  a  single  one  of  my  wonderful  doings  until  she  was  Ursula 
Halifax.  Do  you  remember,  Phineas,  when  you  came  to 
visit  us  the  first  time,  and  found  us  gardening?" 

"And  she  had  on  a  white  gown  and  a  straw  hat  with  blue 
ribbons.  What  a  young  thing  she  looked!  Hardly  older  than 
Mistress  Maud  here." 

John  put  his  arm  round  his  wife's  waist — not  so  slender 
as  it  had  been,  but  comely  and  graceful  still,  repeating — 
with  something  of  the  musical  cadence  of  his  boyish  readings 
of  poetry — a  line  or  two  from  the  sweet  old  English  song: 

"And  when  with  envy  Time  transported 

Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 

You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I'll  go  wooing  with  my  boys." 

Ursula  laughed,  and  for  the  time  being  the  shadow  passed 
from  her  countenance.  Her  husband  had  happily  not  no- 
ticed it,  and  apparently  she  did  not  wish  to  tell  him  her  trou- 
ble. She  let  him  spend  a  happy  day,  even  grew  happy  her- 
self in  response  to  his  care  to  make  her  so,  by  the  resolute 
putting  away  of  all  painful  present  thoughts,  and  calling 
back  of  sweet  and  soothing  memories  belonging  to  the  old 
married  home.  John  seemed  determined  that,  if  possible, 
the  marriage  that  was  to  be  should  be  as  sacred  and  as  hope- 
ful as  their  own. 

So  full  of  it  were  we  all,  that  not  until  the  day  after,  when 
Lord  Ravenel  Had  left  us — longing  apparently  to  be  asked 
to  stay  for  the  wedding,  but  John  did  not  ask  him — I  remem- 
berecl  what  he  had  said  about  Guy's  association  with 


398  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Luxmore's  set.  .  It  was  recalled  to  me  by  the  mother's  anx- 
ious face  as  she  gave  me  a  foreign  letter  to  post. 

"Post  it  yourself,  will  you,  Phineas?  I  would  not  have  it 
miscarry,  or  be  late  in  its  arrival,  on  any  account." 

No,  for  I  saw  it  was  to  her  son  at  Paris. 

"It  will  be  the  last  letter  I  shall  need  to  write,"  she  add- 
ed, again  lingering  over  it,  to  be  certain  that  all  was  correct — 
the  address  being  somewhat  illegible  for  that  free,  firm  hand 
of  hers.  "My  boy  is  coming  home." 

"Guy  coming  home!    To  the  wedding?" 

"No;  but  immediately  after.  He  is  quite  himself  now. 
He  longs  to  come  home." 

"And  his  mother?" 

His  mother  could  not  speak.  Like  light  to  her  eyes,  like 
life  to  her  heart,  was  the  thought  of  Guy's  coming  home. 
All  that  week  she  looked  ten  years  younger.  With  a  step 
buoyant  as  any  girl's  she  went  about  the  marriage  prepara- 
tions; together  with  other  preparations,  perhaps  dearer  still 
to  the  motherly  heart,  where,  if  any  preference  did  lurk,  it 
was  for  the  one  for  whom — possibly  from  whom — she  had 
suffered  most,  of  all  her  children. 

John  too,  though  the  father's  joy  was  graver  and  not  un- 
mixed with  some  anxiety — anxiety  which  he  always  put  aside 
in  his  wife's  presence — seemed  eager  to  have  his  son  at  home. 

"He  is  the  eldest  son,"  he  repeated  more  than  once,  when 
talking  to  me  of  his  hope  that  Guy  would  now  settle  perma- 
nently at  Beechwood.  "After  myself,  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily." 

After  John!  It  was  almost  ridiculous  to  peer  so  far  into 
the  future  as  that. 

Of  all  the  happy  faces  I  saw  the  .day  before  the  marriage,  I 
think  the  happiest  was  Mrs.  Halifax's  as  I  met  her  coming 
out  of  Guy's  room,  which,  ever  since  he  left,  had  been  locked 
up,  unoccupied.  Now  his  mother  threw  open  the  door  with  a 
cheerful  air. 

"You  may  go  in  if  you  like,  Uncle  Phineas.  Does  it  not 
look  nice?" 

It  did  indeed,  with  the  fresh  white  curtains;  the  bed  laid 
all  in  order;  the  book-shelves  arranged,  and  even  the  fowl- 
ing-piece and  fishing-rod  put  in  their  right  places. 

The  room  looked  very  neat,  I  said,  with  an  amused  doubt 
as  to  how  long  it  was  to  remain  so. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  399 

"That  is  true,  indeed.  How  he  used  to  throw  his  things 
about!  A  sad  untidy  boy!"  And  his  mother  laughed,  but  I 
saw  all  her  features  were  trembling  with  emotion. 

"He  will  not  be  exactly  a  boy  now.  I  wonder  if  we  shall 
find  him  much  changed." 

"Very  likely.  Brown,  with  a  great  beard;  he  said  so  in 
one  of  his  letters.  I  shall  hardly  know  my  boy  again."  With 
a  lighting-up  of  the  eye  that  furnished  a  flat  contradiction  to 
the  mother's  statement. 

"Here  are  some  of  Mrs.  Tod's  roses,  I  see." 

"She  made  me  take  them.  She  said  Master  Guy  always 
used  to  stop  and  pick  a  bunch  as  he  rode  past.  She  hopes 
she  shall  see  him  ride  past  on  Sunday  next.  Guy  must  pay 
her  one  of  his  very  first  visits;  the  good  old  soul!" 

I  hinted  that  Guy  would  have  to  pay  visits  half  over  the 
country,  to  judge  by  the  number  of  invitations  I  had  heard 
of. 

"Yes.  Everybody  wants  to  steal  my  boy.  Everybody  has 
a  welcome  for  him.  How  bright  old  Watkins  has  polished 
that  gun!  Sir  Herbert  says  Guy  must  come  over  to  the  shoot- 
ing next  week.  He  used  to  be  exceedingly  fond  of  going  to 
the  Manor-house." 

I  smiled  to  see  the  innocent  smile  of  this  good  mother, 
who  would  have  recoiled  at  the  accusation  of  match-making. 
Yet  I  knew  she  was  thinking  of  her  great  favorite,  pretty 
Grace  Oldtower,  who  was  Grace  Oldtower  still,  and  had  re- 
fused, gossip  said,  half  the  brilliant  matches  in  the  county, 
to  the  amazement  and  strong  disapprobation  of  all  her  friends 
— excepting  Mrs.  Halifax. 

"Come  away,  Phineas!"  slightly  sighing,  as  if  her  joy 
weighed  her  down;  or  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  letting 
fancy  carry  her  too  far  into  the  unknown  future.  "His  room 
is  quite  ready  now,  whatever  time  the  boy  arrives.  Come 
away." 

She  shut  and  locked  the  door.    To  be  opened — when? 

Morning  broke,  and  none  could  have  desired  a  brighter 
marriage-morning.  Sunshine  out-of-doors — sunshine  on  all 
the  faces  within;  only  family  faces — for  no  other  guests  had 
been  invited,  and  we  had  kept  the  day  as  secret  as  we  could; 
there  was  nothing  John  disliked  more  than  a  show  wedding. 
Therefore  it  was  with  some  surprise  that  while  they  were  all 
upstairs  adorning  themselves  for  church,  Maud  and  I,  stand- 


400  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

ing  at  the  hall-door,  saw  Lord  Ravenel's  traveling-carriage 
drive  up  to  it,  and  Lord  Ravenel  himself,  with  a  quicker  and 
more  decided  gesture  than  was  natural  to  him,  spring  out. 

Maud  ran  into  the  porch,  startling  him  much,  apparently; 
for  indeed  she  was  a  sweet  vision  of  youth,  happiness,  and 
grace,  in  her  pretty  bridesmaid's  dress. 

"Is  this  the  wedding  morning?  I  did  not  know,  I  will 
come  again  to-morrow;"  and  he  seemed  eager  to  escape  back 
to  his  carriage. 

This  action  relieved  me  from  a  vague  apprehension  of  ill 
tidings,  and  made  less  painful  the  first  question  which  rose 
to  my  lips,  "Had  he  seen  Guy?" 

"No." 

"We  thought  for  the  moment  it  might  be  Guy  come 
home,"  Maud  cried.  "We  are  expecting  him.  Have  you 
heard  of  him  since  we  saw  you?  Is  he  quite  well?" 

"I  believe  so." 

I  thought  the  answer  brief;  but  then  he  was  looking  in- 
tently upon  Guy's  sister,  who  held  his  hands  in  her  childish, 
affectionate  way;  she  had  not  yet  relinquished  her  privilege 
of  being  Lord  Ravenel's  "pet."  When,  hesitatingly,  he  pro- 
posed returning  to  Luxmore,  unwilling  to  intrude  upon  the 
marriage,  the  little  lady  would  not  hear  of  it  for  a  moment. 
She  took  the  unexpected  guest  to  the  study,  left  him  there 
with  her  father,  explained  to  her  mother  all  about  his  ar- 
rival and  his  having  missed  seeing  Guy — appearing  entirely 
delighted. 

I  came  into  the  drawing-room  and  sat  watching  the  sun 
shining  on  marriage-garments  and  marriage-faces,  all  as 
bright  as  bright  could  be — including  the  mother's.  It  had 
clouded  over  for  a  few  moments,  when  the  postman's  ring 
was  heard;  but  she  said  at  once  that  it  was  most  unlikely  Guy 
would  write;  she  had  told  him  there  was  no  need  to  write. 
So  she  stood  content,  smoothing  down  the  soft  folds  of  her 
beautiful  shawl,  which  Guy  meant  her  to  wear  to-day.  This, 
together  with  his  fond  remembrance  of  her,  seemed  almost 
as  comfortable  as  the  visible  presence  of  her  boy.  Her  boy, 
who  was  sure  to  come  to-morrow. 

"John,  is  that  you?  How  softly  you  came  in!  And  Lord 
Ravenel?  He  knows  we  are  glad  to  see  him.  Shall  we  make 
him  one  of  our  own  family  for  the  time  being,  and  take  him 
with  us  to  see  Edwin  married?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  401 

Lord  Eavenel  bowed. 

"Maud  tells  us  you  have  not  seen  Guy.  I  doubt  if  he  will 
be  able  to  arrive  to-day;  but  we  fully  expect  him  to-morrow." 

Lord  Eavenel  bowed  again.  Mrs.  Halifax  said  something 
about  this  unexpected  arrival  of  his. 

"He  came  on  business/'  John  answered  quickly,  and  Ur- 
sula made  no  more  inquiries. 

She  stood  talking  with  Lord  Eavenel — as  I  could  see  her 
stand  now,  playing  with  the  deep  fringe  of  her  shawl;  the 
sun  glancing  on  that  rich  silk  dress  of  her  favorite  silver- 
gray;  a  picture  of  matronly  grace  and  calm  content,  as 
charming  as  even  the  handsome,  happy  bride. 

I  was  still  looking  at  her  when  John  called  me  aside.  I 
followed  him  into  the  study. 

"Shut  the  door." 

By  his  tone  and  look  I  knew  in  a  moment  that  something 
had  happened. 

"Yes.    I'll  tell  you  presently — if  there's  time." 

While  he  was  speaking,  some  violent  pain — physical  or 
mental,  or  both — seemed  to  seize  him.  I  had  my  hand  on 
the  door  to  call  Ursula,  but  he  held  me  fast,  with  a  kind  of 
terror. 

"Call  no  one.    I  am  used  to  it.    Water!" 

He  drank  a  glassful,  which  stood  by,  breathed  once  or 
twice  heavily,  and  gradually  recovered  himself.  The  color 
had  scarcely  come  back  into  his  face  when  we  heard  Maud 
run  laughing  through  the  hall. 

"Father,  where  are  you?    We  are  waiting  for  you." 

"I  will  come  in  two  minutes,  my  child." 

Having  said  this,  in  his  own  natural  voice,  he  closed  the 
door  again,  and  spoke  to  me  rapidly. 

"Phineas,  I  want  you  to  stay  away  from  church;  make 
some  excuse,  or  I  will  for  you.  Write  a  letter  for  me  to  this 
address  in  Paris.  Say  Guy  Halifax's  father  will  be  there 
without  fail,  within  a  week,  to  answer  all  demands." 

"All  demands!"  I  echoed,  bewildered. 

He  repeated  the  sentence  word  for  word.  "Can  you  re- 
member it?  Literally,  mind!  And  post  it  at  once,  before  we 
return  from  church." 

Here  the  mother's  call  was  heard.  "John,  are  you  com- 
ing?" 

"In  a  moment,  love,"  for  her  hand  was  on  the  door  out- 

26 


402  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

side;  but  her  husband  held  the  other  handle  fast.  He  then 
went  on,  breathlessly.  '"You  understand,  Phineas?  And 
you  will  be  careful — very  careful?  She  must  not  know — 
not  till  to-night." 

"One  word.    Guy  is  alive  and  well?" 

"Yet— yes." 

"Thank  God!" 

But  Guy's  father  was  gone  while  I  spoke.  Heavy  as  the 
news  might  be — this  ill  news,  which  had  struck  me  with  ap- 
prehension the  moment  I  saw  Lord  Ravenel — it  was  still  en- 
durable. I  could  not  conjure  up  any  grief  so  bitter  as  the 
boy's  dying. 

Therefore,  with  a  quietness  that  came  naturally  under  the 
compulsion  of  such  a  necessity  as  the  present,  I  rejoined  the 
rest,  made  my  excuses,  and  answered  all  objections.  I 
watched  the  marriage  party  leave  the  house.  A  simple  pro- 
cession— the  mother  first,  leaning  on  Edwin;  then  Maud, 
Walter,  and  Lord  Eavenel;  John  walked  last,  with  Louise 
upon  his  arm.  Thus  I  saw  them  move  up  the  garden  and 
through  the  beech-wood,  to  the  little  church  on  the  hill. 

I  then  wrote  the  letter  and  sent  it  off.  That  done,  I  went 
back  into  the  study.  Knowing  nothing,  able  to  guess  noth- 
ing, a  dull  patience  came  over  me,  the  patience  with  which 
we  often  wait  for  unknown,  inevitable  misfortunes.  Some- 
times I  almost  forgot  Guy  in  my  startled  remembrance  of  his 
father's  look  as  he  called  me  away,  and  sat  down — or  rather 
dropped  down — into  his  chair.  Was  it  illness?  yet  he  had 
not  complained;  he  hardly  ever  complained,  and  scarcely  had 
a  day's  sickness  from  year  to  year.  And  as  I  watched  him 
and  Louise  up  the  garden,  I  had  noticed  his  free,  firm  gait, 
without  the  least  sign  of  unsteadiness  or  weakness.  Besides, 
he  was  not  one  to  keep  any  but  a  necessary  secret  from  those 
who  loved  him.  He  could  not  be  seriously  ill,  or  we  should 
have  known  it. 

Thus  I  pondered,  until  I  heard  the  church  bells  ring  out 
merrily.  The  marriage  was  over. 

I  was  just  in  time  to  meet  them  at  the  front  gates,  which 
they  entered — our  Edwin  and  his  wife — through  a  living  line 
of  smiling  faces,  treading  upon  the  carpet  of  strewn  flowers. 
Enderley  would  not  be  defrauded  of  its  welcome;  all  the 
village  escorted  the  young  couple  in  triumph  home.  I  have 
a  misty  recollection  of  how  happy  everybody  looked,  how  the 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  403 

sun  was  shining,  and  the  bells  ringing,  and  the  people  cheer- 
ing— a  mingled  phantasmagoria  of  sights  and  sounds,  in 
which  I  only  saw  one  person  distinctly — John. 

He  waited  while  the  young  folks  passed  in — stood  on  the 
hall-steps — in  a  few  words  thanked  his  people,  and  bade  them 
to  the  general  rejoicing.  They,  uproarious,  answered  in  loud 
hurrahs,  and  one  energetic  voice  cried  out: 

"One  cheer  more  for  Master  Guy!" 

Guy's  mother  turned,  delighted;  her  eyes  shining  with 
proud  tears. 

"John,  thank  them;  tell  them  that  Guy  will  thank  them 
himself  to-morrow." 

The  master  thanked  them,  but  either  he  did  not  explain, 
or  the  honest,  rude  voices  drowned  all  mention  of  the  latter 
fact — that  Guy  would  be  home  to-morrow. 

All  this  while,  and  at  the  marriage-breakfast  likewise,  Mr. 
Halifax  kept  the  same  calm  demeanor.  Once  only,  when  the 
rest  were  all  gathered  round  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  he 
said  to  me: 

"Phineas,  is  it  done?" 

"What  is  done?"  asked  Ursula,  suddenly  pausing. 

"A  letter  I  asked  him  to  write  for  me  this  morning." 

Now  I  had  all  my  life  been  proud  of  John's  face — that  it 
was  a  safe  face  to  trust  in — that  it  could  not,  or,  if  it  could, 
it  would  not,  boast  that  stony  calm  under  which  some  men 
are  so  proud  of  disguising  themselves  and  their  emotions 
from  those  nearest  and  dearest  to  them.  If  he  were  sad,  we 
knew  it;  if  he  were  happy,  we  knew  it  too.  It  was  his  prin- 
ciple, that  nothing  but  the  strongest  motive  should  make  a 
man  stoop  to  even  the  smallest  hypocrisy. 

Therefore,  hearing  him  thus  speak  to  his  wife,  I  was  struck 
with  great  alarm.  Mrs.  Halifax  herself  seemed  uneasy. 

"A  business  letter,  I  suppose?" 

"Partly  on  business.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it  this  even- 
ing." 

She  looked  reassured.  "Just  as  you  like;  you  know  I  am 
not  curious."  But  passing  on,  she  turned  back.  "John,  if 
it  was  anything  important  to  be  done — anything  that  I  ought 
to  know  at  once,  you  would  not  keep  me  in  ignorance?" 

"No,  my  dearest!   No!" 

Then  what  had  happened  must  be  something  in  which  no 
help  availed?  something  altogether  past  and  irremediable; 


404  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

something  which  he  rightly  wished  to  keep  concealed,  for  a 
few  hours  at  least,  from  his  other  children,  so  as  not  to  mar 
the  happiness  of  this  day,  of  which  there  could  be  no  second, 
this  crowning  day  of  their  lives — this  wedding-day  of  Edwin 
and  Louise. 

So  he  sat  at  the  marriage-table;  he  drank  the  marriage- 
health;  he  gave  them  both  a  marriage-blessing.  Finally  he 
sent  them  away  smiling  and  sorrowful — as  is  the  bounden 
duty  of  young  married  couples  to  depart — Edwin  pausing 
on  the  carriage-step  to  embrace  his  mother  with  especial  ten- 
derness, and  whisper  her  to  "give  his  love  to  Guy." 

"It  reminds  one  of  Guy's  leaving,"  said  the  mother,  hastily 
brushing  back  the  tears  that  would  spring  and  roll  down  her 
smiling  face.  She  had  never,  until  this  moment,  reverted  to 
that  miserable  day.  "John,  do  you  think  it  possible  the  boy 
can  be  at  home  to-night?" 

John  answered  emphatically,  but  very  softly,  "No." 

"Why  not?  My  letter  would  reach  him  in  full  time.  Lord 
Eavenel  has  been  to  Paris  and  back  since  then.  But,"  turn- 
ing full  upon  the  young  nobleman,  "I  think  you  said  you 
had  not  seen  Guy?" 

"No." 

"Did  you  hear  anything  of  him?" 

"I— Mrs.  Halifax " 

Exceedingly  distressed,  almost  beyond  his  power  of  self- 
restraint,  the  young  man  looked  appealingly  to  John,  who 
replied  for  him: 

"Lord  Eavenel  brought  me  a  letter  from  Guy  this  morn- 
ing." 

"A  letter  from  Guy — and  you  never  told  me!  How  very 
strange!" 

Still,  she  seemed  only  to  think  it  "strange."  Some  diffi- 
culty or  folly,  perhaps — you  could  see  by  the  sudden  flushing 
of  her  cheeks  and  her  quick,  distrustful  glance  at  Lord  Eave- 
nel, what  she  imagined  it  was — that  the  boy  had  confessed 
to  his  father.  With  an  instinct  of  concealment — the  moth- 
er's instinct — for  the  moment  she  asked  no  questions. 

We  were  all  still  standing  at  the  hall-door.  Unresisting, 
she  suffered  her  husband  to  take  her  arm  in  his  and  bring 
her  into  the  study. 

"Now — the  letter,  please!  Children,  go  away;  I  want  to 
speak  to  your  father.  The  letter,  John?" 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  405 

Her  hand,  which  she  held  out,  shook  much.  She  tried  to 
unfold  the  paper — stopped,  and  looked  up  piteously. 

"It  is  not  to  tell  me  he  is  not  coming  home?  I  can  bear 
anything,  you  know;  but  he  must  come  home." 

John  only  answered  "Read/'  and  took  firm  hold  of  her 
hand  while  she  read — as  we  hold  the  hand  of  one  undergoing 
great  torture,  which  must  be  undergone,  and  which  no  hu- 
man love  can  either  prepare  for,  remove,  or  alleviate. 

The  letter,  which  I  saw  afterward,  was  thus: 

"Dear  Father  and  Mother:  I  have  disgraced  you  all.  I  have 
been  drunk — in  a  gambling-house.  A  man  insulted  me — it  was 
about  my  father — but  you  will  hear — all  the  world  will  hear  pres- 
ently. I  struck  him — there  was  something  in  my  hand,  and — the 
man  was  hurt. 

"He  may  be  dead  by  this  time.    I  don't  know. 

"I  am  away  to  America  to-night.  I  shall  never  come  home  any 
more.  God  bless  you  all.  GUY  HALIFAX. 

"P.  S. — I  got  my  mother's  letter  to-day.  Mother — I  was  not  in 
my  right  senses,  or  I  should  not  have  done  it.  Mother,  darling! 
forget  me.  Don't  let  me  have  broken  your  heart." 

Alas,  he  had  broken  it! 

"Never  come  home  any  more — never  come  home  any 
more!'' 

She  repeated  this  over  and  over  again  vacantly:  nothing 
but  these  five  words. 

Nature  refused  to  bear  it;  or  rather,  Nature  mercifully 
helped  her  to  bear  it.  When  John  took  his  wife  in  his  arms 
she  was  insensible;  and  remained  so,  with  intervals,  for 
hours. 

This  was  the  end  of  Edwin's  wedding-day. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Lord  Ravenel  knew — as  all  Paris  did  by  this  time — the 
whole  story.  Though,  as  he  truly  said,  he  had  not  seen  Guy. 
The  lad  was  hurried  off  immediately,  for  fear  of  justice;  but 
he  had  written  from  shipboard  to  Lord  Ravenel,  begging 
him  himself  to  take  the  letter  and  break  the  news  to  us  at 
Beechwood. 

The  man  he  had  struck  was  not  one  of  Lord  Luxmore's 


406  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

set — though  it  was  through  some  of  his  "noble"  friends  Guy 
had  fallen  into  his  company.  He  was  an  Englishman,  lately 
succeeded  to  a  baronetcy  and  estate;  his  name — how  we  start- 
ed to  hear  it,  though  by  Lord  Ravenel  and  by  us  for  his  sake,  it 
was  both  pronounced  and  listened  to,  as  if  none  of  us  had 
ever  heard  it  before — Sir  Gerard  Vermilye. 

As  soon  as  Ursula  recovered,  Mr.  Halifax  and  Lord  Rave- 
nel went  to  Paris  together.  This  was  necessary,  not  only  to 
meet  justice,  but  to  track  the  boy — to  whose  destination  we 
had  no  clue  but  the  wide  word,  America.  Guy's  mother  hur- 
ried them  away — his  mother,  who  rose  from  her  bed,  and 
moved  about  the  house  like  a  ghost — upstairs  and  down- 
stairs— everywhere — excepting  in  that  room,  which  was  now 
once  more  locked,  and  the  outer  blind  drawn  down,  as  if 
death  himself  had  taken  possession  there. 

Alas!  we  learned  now  that  there  may  be  sorrows  bitterer 
even  than  death. 

Mr.  Halifax  went  away.  Then  followed  a  long  season  of 
torpid  gloom — days  or  weeks,  I  hardly  remember — during 
which  we,  living  shut  up  at  Beech  wood,  knew' that  our  name 
— John's  stainless,  honorable  name — was  in  everybody's 
mouth — parroted  abroad  in  every  society,  canvassed  in  every 
newspaper.  We  tried,  Walter  and  I,  to  stop  them  at  first, 
dreading  lest  the  mother  might  read  in  some  foul  print  or 
other  scurrilous  tales  about  her  boy;  or,  as  long  remained 
doubtful,  learned  that  he  was  proclaimed  through  France 
and  England  as  a  homicide,  an  assassin.  But  concealments 
were  idle — she  would  read  everything — hear  everything — 
meet  everything — even  those  neighbors  who,  out  of  curiosity 
or  sympathy,  called  at  Beechwood.  Not  many  times,  though; 
they  said  they  could  not  understand  Mrs.  Halifax.  So,  after 
awhile,  they  all  left  her  alone,  except  good  little  Grace  Old- 
tower. 

"Come  often,"  I  heard  her  say  to  this  girl,  whom  she  was 
fond  of;  they  had  sat  talking  a  whole  morning — idly  and 
pensively;  of  little  things  around  them,  never  once  referring 
to  things  outside.  "Come  often,  though  the  house  is  dull. 
Does  it  not  feel  strange,  with  Mr.  Halifax  away?" 

Ay,  this  was  the  change — stranger  at  first  than  what  had 
befallen  Guy — for  that  long  seemed  a  thing  we  could  not 
realize;  like  a  story  told" of  some  other  family  than  ours.  The 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  407 

present  tangible  blank  was  the  house  with  its  head  and  mas- 
ter away. 

Curiously  enough,  but  from  his  domestic  habits  easily  ac- 
countable, he  had  scarcely  ever  been  more  than  a  few  days 
absent  from  home  before.  We  missed  him  continually;  in  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  table;  in  his  chair  by  the  fire;  his 
quick  ring  at  the  hall-bell.,  when  he  came  up  from  the  mills; 
his  step,  his  voice,  his  laugh.  The  life  and  soul  of  the  house 
seemed  to  have  gone  out  of  it  from  the  hour  the  father  went 
away. 

I  think  in  the  wonderful  working  of  things,  as  we  know 
all  things  do  work  together  for  good,  this  fact  was  good  for 
Ursula.  It  taught  her  that  in  losing  Guy  she  had  not  lost 
all  her  blessings.  It  showed  her  what  in  the  passion  of  her 
mother-love  she  might  have  been  tempted  to  forget — many 
mothers  do — that  beyond  all  maternal  duty  is  the  duty  that 
a  woman  owes  to  her  husband;  beyond  all  loves  is  the  love 
that  was  hers  before  any  of  them  were  born. 

So,  gradually,  as  every  day  John's  letters  came — and  she 
used  to  watch  for  them  and  seize  them  as  if  they  had  been 
love-letters — as  every  day  she  seemed  to  miss  him  more,  and 
count  more  upon  his  return,  referring  all  decisions  and  all 
little  pleasures  planned  for  her  to  the  time  "when  your  father 
comes  home;"  hope  and  comfort  began  to  dawn  in  the  heart 
of  the  mourning  mother. 

And  when  at  last  John  fixed  the  day  of  his  coming  back, 
I  saw  Ursula  tying  up  the  small  bundle  of  his  letters — his 
letters,  of  which  in  all  her  happy  life  she  had  had  so  few 
tender,  comforting,  comfortable  letters. 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  need  to  have  any  more,"  she  said, 
half-smiling — the  faint  smile  which  began  to  dawn  in  her 
poor  face,  as  if  she  must  accustom  it  to  look  bright  again  in 
time  for  her  husband's  coming. 

And  when  the  day  arrived,  she  put  all  the  house  in  trim 
order,  dressed  herself  in  her  prettiest  gown,  sat  patient  while 
Maud  brushed  and  curled  her  hair — how  white  it  had  turned 
of  late! — and  then  waited,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek — like 
that  of  a  young  girl  waiting  for  her  lover — for  the  sound  of 
carriage-wheels. 

All  that  had  to  be  told  about  Guy — and  it  was  better  news 
than  any  one  of  us  had  hoped  for — John  had  already  told  in 
his  letters.  When  he  came  back,  therefore,  he  was  burdened 


408  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

with  no  trouble  undisclosed — greeted  with  no  anguish  of 
fear  or  bitter  remembrance.  As  he  sprung  out  of  the  post- 
chaise,  it  was  to  find  his  wife  standing  at  the  door,  and  his 
home  smiling  for  him  its  brightest  welcome.  No  blessing  on 
earth  could  be  like  the  blessing  of  the  father's  return. 

John  looked  pale,  but  not  paler  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. Grave  too — but  it  was  a  soft  seriousness  altogether 
free  from  the  restlessness  of  keen  anxiety.  The  first  shock 
of  this  heavy  misfortune  was  over.  He  paid  all  his  son's 
debts;  he  had,  as  far  as  was  possible,  saved  his  good  name; 
he  had  made  a  safe  home  for  the  lad,  and  heard  of  his  safely 
reaching  it,  in  the  New  World.  Nothing  more  was  left  but 
to  cover  over  the  inevitable  grief,  and  hope  that  time  would 
blot  out  the  intolerable  shame.  That  since  Guy's  hand  was 
clear  of  blood — and  since  his  recovery  Sir  Gerard  Vermilye 
had  risen  into  a  positive  hero  of  society — men's  minds  would 
gradually  lose  the  impression  of  a  deed  committed  in  the  heat 
of  youth,  and  repented  of  with  such  bitter  atonement. 

So  the  father  took  his  old  place  and  looked  round  on  the 
remnant  of  his  children,  grave  indeed,  but  not  weighed  down 
by  incurable  suffering.  Something,  deeper  even  than  the 
hard  time  he  had  recently  passed  through,  seemed  to  have 
made  his  home  more  than  ever  dear  to  him.  He  sat  in  his 
arm-chair,  never  weary  of  noticing  everything  pleasant  about 
him,  of  saying  how  pretty  Beechwood  looked,  and  how  de- 
licious it  was  to  be  at  home.  And  perpetually,  if  any  chance 
unlinked  it,  his  hand  would  return  to  its  clasp  of  Ursula's; 
the  minute  she  left  her  place  by  his  side,  his  restless  "Love, 
where  are  you  going?"  would  call  her  back  again.  And  once, 
when  the  children  were  out  of  the  room,  and  I,  sitting  in  a 
dark  corner,  was  probably  thought  absent  likewise,  I  saw 
John  take  his  wife's  face  between  his  two  hands  and  look  in 
it — the  fondest,  most  lingering,  saddest  look! — then  fold  her 
tightly  to  his  breast. 

"I  must  never  be  away  from  her  again.  Mine — for  as  long 
as  I  live,  mine — my  wife,  my  Ursula!" 

She  took  it  all  naturally,  as  she  had  taken  every  expression 
of  his  love  these  nine-and-twenty  years.  I  left  them,  stand- 
ing eye  to  eye,  heart  to  heart,  as  if  nothing  in  this  world 
could  ever  part  them. 

Next  morning  was  as  gay  as  any  of  our  mornings  used  to 
bej,  for,  before  breakfast,  came  Edwin  and  Louise.  And  after 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  409 

breakfast  the  father  and  mother  and  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  garden  for  an  hour,  talking  over  the  prospects  of  the 
young  couple.  Then  the  post  came,  but  we  had  no  need  to 
watch  for  it  now.  It  only  brought  a  letter  from  Lord  Rave- 
nel. 

John  read  it  somewhat  more  seriously  than  he  had  been 
used  to  read  these  letters — which  for  the  last  year  or  so  had 
come  often  enough — the  boys  usually  quizzing,  and  Mistress 
Maud  vehemently  defending,  the  delicate  small  handwriting, 
the  exquisite  paper,  the  coroneted  seal  and  the  frank  in  the 
corner.  John  liked  to  have  them,  and  his  wife  also — she  be- 
ing not  indifferent  to  the  fact,  confirmed  by  many  other 
facts,  that  if  there  was  one  man  in  the  world  whom  Lord 
Ravenel  honored  and  admired,  it  was  John  Halifax,  of 
Beechwood.  But  this  time  her  pleasure  was  apparently 
dampened;  and  when  Maud,  claiming  the  letter  as  usual, 
spread  abroad,  delightedly,  the  news  that  "her"  Lord  Rave- 
nel was  coming  shortly,  I  imagined  this  visit  was  not  so  wel- 
come as  usual  to  the  parents. 

Yet  still,  as  many  a  time  before,  when  Mr.  Halifax  closed 
the  letter,  he  sighed,  looked  sorrowful,  saying  only,  "Poor 
Lord  Ravenel!" 

"John,"  asked  his  wife,  speaking  in  a  whisper,  for  by  tacit 
consent  all  public  allusion  to  his  doings  at  Paris  was  avoided 

in  the  family,  "did  you,  by  any  chance,  hear  anything  of 

You  know  whom  I  mean?" 

"Not  one  syllable." 

"You  inquired?"  He  assented.  "I  knew  you  would. 
She  must  be  almost  an  old  woman  now,  or  perhaps  she  is 
dead.  Poor  Caroline!"  It  was. the  first  time  for  years  and 
years  that  this  name  had  been  breathed  in  our  household. 
Involuntarily  it  carried  me  back — perhaps  others  besides  me 
— to  the  day  at  Longfield  when  little  Guy  had  devoted  him- 
self to  his  "pretty  lady;"  when  we  first  heard  that  other  name 
which  by  a  curious  conjuncture  of  circumstances  had  since 
become  so  fatally  familiar,  and  which  would  henceforward  be 
like  the  sound  of  a  dead-bell  in  our  family — Gerard  Vermilye. 

On  Lord  Ravenel's  reappearance  at  Beechwood — and  he 
seemed  eager  and  glad  to  come — I  was  tempted  to  wish  him 
away.  He  never  crossed  the  threshold  but  his  presence 
brought  a  shadow  over  the  parents'  looks,  and  no  wonder. 
The  young  people  were  gay  and  friendly  as  ever;  made  him 


410  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

always  welcome  with  us;  and  he  rode  over  daily  from  desolate, 
long-uninhabited  Luxmore,  where,  in  all  its  desolation,  he 
appeared  so  fond  of  abiding. 

He  wanted  to  take  Maud  and  Walter  over  there  one  day, 
to  see  some  magnificent  firs  that  were  being  cut  down  in  a 
wholesale  massacre,  leaving  the  grand  old  hall  as  bare  as  a 
work-house  front.  But  the  father  objected;  he  was  clearly 
determined  that  all  the  hospitalities  between  Luxmore  and 
Beechwood  should  be  on  the  Beechwood  side. 

Lord  Ravenel  apparently  perceived  this.  "Luxmore  is  not 
Compiegne,"  he  said  to  me,  with  his  dreary  smile,  half  sad, 
half-cynical.  "Mr.  Halifax  might  indulge  me  with  the  so- 
ciety of  his  children." 

And  as  he  lay  on  the  grass — it  was  full  summer  now — 
watching  Maud's  white  dress  flit  about  under  the  trees,  I  saw, 
or  fancied  I  saw,  something  different  to  any  former  expres- 
sion that  had  ever  lighted  up  the  soft  languid  mien  of  Wil- 
liam Lord  Ravenel. 

"How  tall  that  child  has  grown  lately!  She  is  about  nine- 
teen, I  think?" 

"Not  seventeen  till  December." 

"Ah,  so  young?  Well,  it  is  pleasant  to  be  young!  Dear 
little  Maud!" 

He  turned  on  one  side,  hiding  the  sun  from  his  eyes  with 
those  delicate  ringed  hands,  which  many  a  time  our  boys  had 
laughed  at,  saying  they  were  mere  lady's  hands,  fit  for  no 
work  at  all. 

Perhaps  Lord  Ravenel  felt  the  cloud  that  had  come  over 
our  intercourse  with  him;  a  cloud  which,  considering  late 
events,  was  scarcely  unnatural;  for  when  evening  came,  his 
leave-taking,  always  a  regret,  seemed  now  as  painful  as  his 
blase  indifference  to  all  emotions,  pleasant  or  unpleasant, 
could  allow.  He  lingered — he  hesitated — he  repeated  many 
times  how  glad  he  should  be  to  see  Beechwood  again;  how  all 
the  world  was  to  him  "flat,  stale  and  unprofitable,"  except 
Beechwood. 

John  made  no  special  answer,  except  that  frank  smile,  not 
without  a  certain  kindly  satire,  under  which  the  young  noble- 
man's Byronic  affections  generally  melted  away  like  mists  in 
the  morning.  He  kindled  up  into  warmth  and  manliness. 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Halifax — I  thank  you  heartily  for  all 
you  and  your  household  have  been  to  me.  I  trust  I  shall 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  411 

enjoy  your  friendship  for  many  years.  And  if,  in  any  way, 
I  might  offer  mine,  or  any  small  influence  in  the  world " 

"Your  influence  is  not  small,"  John  returned,  earnestly. 
"I  have  often  told  you  so.  I  know  no  man  who  has  wider  op- 
portunities than  you  have." 

"But  I  have  let  them  slip — forever." 

"No,  not  forever.  You  are  young  still;  you  have  half  a  life- 
time before  you." 

"Have  I?"  And  for  the  moment  one  would  hardly  have 
recognized  the  sallow,  spiritless  face,  that,  with  all  the  deli- 
cacy of  boyhood  still,  at  times  looked  so  exceedingly  old. 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Halifax,  who  ever  heard  of  a  man  beginning 
life  at  seven-and-thirty?" 

"Are  you  really  seven-and-thirty?"  asked  Maud. 

"Yes — yes,  my  girl.     Is  it  so  very  old?" 

He  patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  took  her  hand,  gazed  at  it 
— the  round,  rosy,  girKsh  hand — with  a  melancholy  tender- 
ness; then  bade  "Good-by"  to  us  all  generally,  and  rode  off. 

It  struck  me  then,  though  I  hurried  the  thought  away — 
it  struck  me  afterward,  and  does  now  with  renewed  surprise — 
how  strange  it  was  that  the  mother  never  noticed  or  took  into 
account  certain  possibilities  that  would  have  occurred  natur- 
ally to  any  worldly  mother.  I  can  only  explain  it  by  remem- 
bering the  unworldliness  of  our  lives  at  Beechwood,  the  heavy 
cares  which  now  pressed  upon  us  from  without,  and  the  nota- 
ble fact — which  our  own  family  experience  ought  to  have 
taught  us,  yet  did  not — that  in  cases  like  this,  often  those 
whom  one  would  have  expected  to  be  most  quick-sighted,  are 
the  most  strangely,  irretrievably,  mournfully  blind. 

When,  the  very  next  day,  Lord  Eavenal,  not  on  horseback, 
but  in  his  rarely-used,  luxurious  coroneted  carriage,  drove  up 
to  Beechwood,  every  one  in  the  house  except  myself  was  in- 
conceivably astonished  to  see  him  back  again. 

He  said  that  he  had  delayed  his  journey  to  Paris,  but  gave 
no  explanation  of  that  delay.  He  joined  as  usual  in  our 
mid-day  dinner;  and  after  dinner,  still  as  usual,  took  a  walk 
with  me  and  Maud.  It  happened  to  be  through  the  beech- 
wood,  almost  the  identical  path  that  I  remembered  taking 
years  and  years  ago,  with  John  and  Ursula.  I  was  surprised 
to  hear  Lord  Eavenel  allude  to  the  fact,  a  well-known  fact  in 
our  family;  for  I  think  all  fathers  and  mothers  like  to  relate, 


412  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

and  all  children  to  hear,  the  slightest  incidents  of  the  parents' 
courting  days. 

"You  did  not  know  father  and  mother  when  they;  were 
young?"  said  Maud,  catching  our  conversation  and  flashing 
back  her  innocent,  merry  face  upon  us. 

"No,  scarcely  likely."  And  he  smiled.  "Oh,  yes,  it  might 
have  heen;  I  forget,  I  am  not  a  young  man  now.  How  old 
were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax  when  they  were  married?" 

"Father  was  twenty-one  and  mother  was  eighteen;  only  a 
year  older  than  I."  And  Maud,  half-ashamed  of  this  sugges- 
tive remark,  ran  away.  Her  gay  candor  proved  to  me,  per- 
haps to  others  besides  me,  the  girl's  entire  free-heartedness. 
The  frank  innocence  of  childhood  was  still  hers. 

Lord  Ravenel  looked  after  her  and  sighed.  "It  is  good  to 
marry  early;  do  you  not  think  so,  Mr.  Fletcher?" 

I  told  him — (I  was  rather  sorry  after  I  had  said  it,  if  one 
ought  to  be  sorry  for  having,  when  questioned,  given  one's 
honest  opinion) — I  told  him  that  I  thought  those  happiest 
who  found  their  happiness  early,  but  that  I  did  not  see  why 
happiness  should  be  rejected  because  it  was  the  will  of  Provi- 
dence that  it  should  not  be  found  till  late. 

"I  wonder,  he  said,  dreamily,  "I  wonder  whether  I  shall 
ever  find  it." 

I  asked  him — it  was  by  an  impulse  irresistible — why  he  had 
never  married. 

"Because  I  never  found  any  woman  either  to  love  or  to  be- 
lieve in.  Worse,"  he  added,  bitterly,  "I  did  not  think  there 
lived  the  woman  who  could  be  believed  in." 

We  had  come  out  of  the  beech-wood  and  were  standing  by 
the  low  church-yard  wall;  the  sun  glittered  on  the  white  mar- 
ble headstone  on  which  was  inscribed,  "Muriel  Joy  Halifax." 

Lord  Ravenel  leaned  over  the  wall,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  that 
little  grave.  After  a  while,  he  said,  sighing: 

"Do  you  know  I  have  thought  sometimes  that,  had  she 
lived,  I  could  have  loved — I  might  have  married — that 
child!" 

Here  Maud  sprung  toward  us.  In  her  playful  tyranny, 
which  she  loved  to  exercise  and  he  to  submit  to,  she  insisted 
on  knowing  what  Lord  Ravenel  was  talking  about. 

"I  was  saying,"  he  answered,  taking  both  her  hands,  and 
looking  down  into  her  bright,  unshrinking  eyes — I  was  say- 
ing how  dearly  I  loved  your  sister  Muriel." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  413 

"I  know  that/'  and  Maud  became  grave  at  once.  "I  know 
you  care  for  me  because  I  am  like  my  sister  Muriel." 

"If  it  were  so,  would  you  be  sorry  or  glad?" 

"Glad,  and  proud  too.  But  you  said,  or  you  were  going  to 
say,  something  more.  What  was  it?" 

He  hesitated  long,  then  answered: 

"I  will  tell  you  another  time." 

Maud  went  away  rather  cross  and  dissatisfied,  but  evidently 
suspecting  nothing.  For  me,  I  began  to  be  seriously  uneasy 
about  her  and  Lord  Eavenel. 

Of  all  kinds  of  love,  there  is  one  which  common-sense  and 
romance  have  often  combined  to  hold  obnoxious,  improbable, 
or  ridiculous,  but  which  has  always  seemed  to  me  the  most 
real  and  pathetic  form  that  the  passion  ever  takes — I  mean, 
love  in  spite  of  great  disparity  of  age.  Even  when  this  is  on 
the  woman's  side,  I  can  imagine  circumstances  that  would 
make  it  far  less  ludicrous  and  pitiful;  and  there  are  few  things 
to  me  more  touching,  more  full  of  sad  earnest,  than  to  see  an 
old  man  in  love  with  a  young  girl. 

Lord  Eavenel's  case  would  hardly  come  under  this  cate- 
gory; yet  the  difference  between  seventeen  and  thirty-seven 
was  sufficient  to  warrant  in  him  a  trembling  uncertainty,  an 
eager  catching  at  the  skirts  of  that  vanishing  youth  whose 
preciousness  he  never  seemed  to  have  recognized  till  now.  It 
was  with  a  mournful  interest  that  all  day  I  watched  him  fol- 
low the  child  about,  gather  her  posies,  help  her  to  water  her 
flowers,  and  accommodate  himself  to  those  whims  and  fancies, 
of  which,  as  the  pet  and  the  youngest,  Mistress  Maud  had 
her  full  share. 

When,  at  her  usual  hour  of  half -past  nine,  the  little  lady 
was  summoned  away  to  bed,  "to  keep  up  her  roses,"  he  looked 
half  resentful  of  the  mother's  interference. 

"Maud  is  not  a  child  now,  and  this  may  be  my  last  night 
"  he  stopped,  sensitively,  at  the  involuntary  foreboding. 

"Your  last  night?  Nonsense!  you  will  come  back  soon 
again.  You  must — you  shall!"  said  Maud,  decisively. 

"I  hope  I  may — I  trust  in  Heaven  I  may!" 

He  spoke  low,  holding  her  hand  distantly  and  reverently, 
not  attempting  to  kiss  it,  as  in  all  his  former  farewells  he  had 
invariably  done. 

"Maud,  remember  me!  However  or  whenever  I  come  back, 
dearest  child,  be  faithful,  and  remember  me!" 


414  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

Maud  flew  away  with  a  sob  of  childish  paiii — partly  anger, 
the  mother  thought — and  slightly  apologized  to  the  guest  for 
her  daughter's  "naughtiness." 

Lord  Ravenel  sat  silent  for  a  long  time. 

Just  when  we  thought  he  proposed  leaving,  he  said,  ab- 
ruptly, "Mr.  Halifax,  may  I  have  five  minutes'  speech  with 
you  in  the  study?" 

The  five  minutes  extended  to  half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Halifax 
wondered  what  on  earth  they  were  talking  about.  I  held  my 
peace.  At  last  the  father  came  in  alone. 

"John,  is  Lord  Eavenel  gone?" 

"Not  yet." 

"What  could  he  have  wanted  to  say  to  you?" 

John  sat  down  by  his  wife,  picked  up  the  ball  of  her  knit- 
ting, rolled  and  unrolled  it.  She  saw  at  once  that  something 
had  grieved  and  perplexed  him  exceedingly.  Her  heart  shrunk 
back — that  still  sore  heart — recoiled  with  a  not  unnatural 
fear. 

"Oh,  husband,  is  it  any  new  misfortune?" 

"No,  love,"  cheering  her  with  a  smile;  "nothing  that  fathers 
and  mothers  in  general  would  consider  as  such.  He  has  asked 
me  for  our  Maud." 

"What  for?"  was  the  mother's  first  exceedingly  simple  ques- 
tion— and  then  she  guessed  its  answer.  "Impossible!  Bidic- 
ulous — absolutely  ridiculous!  She  is  only  a  child." 

"Nevertheless,  Lord  Eavenel  wishes  to  marry  our  little 
Maud." 

"Lord  Eavenel  wishes  to  marry  our  Maud!" 

Mrs.  Halifax  repeated  this  to  herself  more  than  once  before 
she  was  able  to  entertain  it  as  a  reality.  When  she  did,  the 
first  impression  it  made  upon  her  mind  was  altogether  pain. 

"Oh,  John!  I  hoped  we  had  done  with  these  sort  of  things; 
I  thought  we  should  have  been  left  in  peace  with  the  rest  of 
our  children." 

John  smiled  again;  for,  indeed,  there  was  a  comical  side  to 
her  view  of  the  subject;  but  its  serious  phase  soon  returned; 
doubly  so,  when,  looking  up,  they  both  saw  Lord  Eavenel 
standing  before  them.  Firm  his  attitude  was,  firmer  than 
usual;  and  it  was  with  something  of  his  father's  stately  air; 
mingled  with  a  more  chivalric  and  sincerer  grace,  that  he 
stooped  forward  and  kissed  the  hand  of  Maud's  mother, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  415 

"Mr,  Halifax  has  told  you  all,  I  believe?" 

"He  has." 

"May  I,  then,  with  entire  trust  in  you  both,  await  my  an- 
swer?" 

He  waited  it,  patiently  enough,  with  little  apparent  doubt 
as  to  what  it  would  be.  Besides,  it  was  only  the  prior  ques- 
tion of  parental  consent,  not  the  vital  point  of  Maud's  prefer- 
ence. And,  with  all  his  natural  humility,  Lord  Eavenel 
might  be  forgiven,  if,  brought  up  in  the  world,  he  was  aware 
of  his  position  therein;  nor  quite  unconscious  that  he  was  not 
merely  William  Eavenel,  but  the  only  son  and  heir  of  the 
Earl  of  Luxmore,  who  came  a-wooing. 

Not  till  after  a  long  pause,  and  even  a  whispered  word  or 
two  between  the  husband  and  wife,  who  knew  each  other's 
minds  so  well  that  no  more  consultation  was  needed — did  the 
suitor  again,  with  a  more  formal  air,  ask  for  an  answer. 

"It  is  difficult  to  give.  I  find  that  my  wife,  like  myself, 
had  no  idea  of  your  feelings.  The  extreme  suddenness " 

"Pardon  me;  my  intention  has  not  been  sudden.  It  is  the 
growth  of  many  months — years  I  might  almost  say." 

"We  are  the  more  grieved." 

"Grieved?" 

Lord  Ravenel's  extreme  surprise  startled  him  from  the  mere 
suitor  into  the  lover;  he  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  in  un- 
disguised alarm.  John  hesitated;  the  mother  said  something 
about  the  "great  difference  between  them." 

"In  age,  do  you  mean?  I  am  aware  of  that,"  he  answered, 
with  some  sadness.  "But  twenty  years  is  not  an  insuperable 
bar  in  marriage." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  thoughtfully. 

"And  for  any  other  disparity — in  fortune  or  rank " 

"I  think,  Lord  Eavenel,"  and  the  mother  spoke  with  her 
"dignified"  air,  "you  know  enough  of  my  husband's  character 
and  opinions  to  be  assured  how  lightly  he  would  hold  such  a 
disparity — if  you  allude  to  that  supposed  to  exist  between  the 
son  of  the  Earl  of  Luxmore  and  the  daughter  of  John  Hali- 
fax." 

The  young  nobleman  colored,  as  if  with  ingenuous  shame 
at  what  he  had  been  implying.  "I'm  glad  of  it.  Let  me  as- 
sure you  there  will  be  no  impediments  on  the  side  of  my  fam- 
ily. The  earl  has  long  wished  me  to  marry.  He  knows  well 


416  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

enough  that  I  can  marry  whom  I  please — and  shall  marry  1'or 
love  only.     Give  me  your  leave  to  win  your  little  Maud." 

A  dead  silence. 

"Again  pardon  me/'  Lord  Kavenel  said,  with  some  hauteur; 
"I  cannot  have  clearly  explained  myself.  Let  me  repeat, 
Mr.  Halifax,  that  I  ask  your  permission  to  win  your  daughter's 
affection,  and,  in  due  time,  her  hand." 

"I  would  that  you  had  asked  of  me  anything  that  it  could 
be  less  impossible  to  give  you." 

"Impossible!     What    do  you    mean?     Mrs.  Halifax- 
He  turned  instinctively  to  the  woman — the  mother. 

Ursula's  eyes  were  full  of  a  sad  kindness — the  kindness  any 
mother  must  feel  toward  one  who  worthily  woos  her  daughter 
— but  she  replied  distinctly: 

"I  feel,  with  my  husband,  that  such  a  marriage  would  be 
impossible." 

Lord  Ravenel  grew  scarlet,  sat  down,  rose  again,  and  stood 
facing  them,  pale  and  haughty. 

"If  I  may  ask — your  reasons?" 

"Since  you  ask,  certainly,"  John  replied.  "Though,  believe 
me,  I  give  them  with  the  deepest  pain.  Lord  Eavenel,  do 
you  not  yourself  see  that  our  Maud " 

"Wait  one  moment,"  he  interrupted.  "There  is  not,  there 
cannot  be,  any  previous  attachment?" 

The  supposition  made  the  parents  smile.  "Indeed,  noth- 
ing of  the  kind;  she  is  a  mere  child." 

"You  think  her  too  young  for  marriage,  then?"  was  the 
eager  answer.  "Be  it  so.  I  will  wait,  though  my  youth, 
alas!  is  slipping  from  me;  but  I  will  wait — two  years,  three 
— any  time  you  choose  to  name." 

John  needed  not  to  reply.  The  very  sorrow  of  his  decision 
showed  how  inevitable  and  irrevocable  it  was. 

Lord  BavenePs  pride  rose  against  it. 

"I  fear  in  this  my  novel  position  I  am  somewhat  slow  of 
comprehension.  Would  it  be  so  great  a  misfortune  to  your 
daughter  if  I  made  her  Viscountess  Bavenel,  and  in  course  of 
time  Countess  of  Luxmore?" 

"I  believe  it  would.  Her  mother  and  I  ;vould  rather  see 
our  little  Maud  lying  beside  her  sister  Muriel  than  see  her 
Countess  of  Luxmore." 

These  words,  hard  as  they  were,  John  uttered  so  softly  and 
with  such  infinite  grief  and  pain,  that  they  struck  the  young 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  417 

man,  not  with  anger,  but  with  an  indefinite  awe,  as  if  a  ghost 
from  his  youth,  his  wasted  youth,  had  risen  up  to  point  out 
that  truth,  and  show  him  that  what  seemed  insult  or  ven- 
geance, was  only  a  bitter  necessity. 

All  he  did  was  to  repeat,  in  a  subdued  manner — "Your 
reasons?" 

"Ah,  Lord  Kavenel!"  John  answered,  sadly,  "do  you  not 
see  yourself  that  the  distance  between  us  and  you  is  wide  as 
the  poles?  Not  in  worldly  things,  but  in  things  far  deeper — 
personal  things,  which  strike  at  the  root  of  love,  home — nay, 
honor." 

Lord  Ravenel  started.  "Would  you  imply  that  anything  in 
my  past  life,  aimless  and  useless  as  it  may  have  been,  is  un- 
worthy of  my  honor — the  honor  of  our  house?" 

Saying  this,  he  stopped — recoiled — as  if  suddenly  made 
aware  by  the  very  words  himself  had  uttered  what — con- 
trasted with  the  unsullied  dignity  of  the  tradesman's  life,  the 
spotless  innocence  of  the  tradesman's  daughter — what  a  foul 
tattered  rag,  fit  to  be  torn  down  by  an  honest  gust,  was  that 
flaunting  emblazonment,  the  so-called  "honor"  of  Luxmore! 

"I  understand  you  now.  'The  sins  of  the  fathers  shall  be 
visited  upon  the  children,'  as  your  Bible  says — your  Bible, 
that  I  had  half  begun  to  believe  in.  Be  it  so.  Mr.  Halifax, 
I  will  detain  you  no  longer." 

John  intercepted  the  young  man's  departure. 

"No,  you  do  not  understand  me.  I  hold  no  man  account- 
able for  any  errors,  any  shortcomings,  except  his  own." 

"I  am  to  conclude,  then,  that  it  is  to  myself  you  refuse  your 
daughter?" 

"It  is." 

Lord  Ravenel  once  more  bowedj  with  sarcastic  emphasis. 

"I  entreat  you  not  to  mistake  me,"  John  continued,  most 
earnestly.  "I  know  nothing  of  you  that  the  world  would  con- 
demn, much  that  it  would  even  admire;  but  your  world  is  not 
our  world,  nor  your  aims  our  aims.  If  I  gave  you  my  little 
Maud,  it  would  confer  on  you  no  lasting  happiness,  and  it 
would  be  thrusting  my  child,  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  to  the 
brink  of  that  whirlpool  where,  soon  or  late,  every  miserable 
life  must  go  down." 

Lord  Eavenel  made  no  answer.  His  new-born  energy,  his 
pride,  his  sarcasm,  had  successively  vanished;  dead,  passive 

27 


418  JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

melancholy  resumed  its  empire  over  him.  Mr.  Halifax  re- 
garded him  with  mournful  compassion. 

"Oh,  that  I  had  forseen  this!  I  would  have  placed  the 
breadth  of  all  England  between  you  and  my  child." 

"Would  you?" 

"Understand  me.  Not  because  you  do  not  possess  our 
warm  interest,  our  friendship;  both  will  always  be  yours. 
But  these  are  external  ties,  which  may  exist  through  many 
differences.  In  marriage  there  must  be  perfect  unity;  one 
aim,  one  faith,  one  love,  or  the  marriage  is  incomplete,  un- 
holy— a  mere  civil  contract,  and  no  more." 

Lord  Ravenel  looked  up  amazed  at  this  doctrine,  then  sat 
awhile,  pondering  drearily. 

"Yes,  you  may  be  right,"  at  last  he  said.  Your  Maud  is 
not  for  me,  nor  those  like  me.  Between  us  and  you  is  that 
'great  gulf  fixed;'  what  did  the  fable  say?  I  forget — Che 
sard,  sara!  I  am  but  as  others;  I  am  but  what  I  was  born  to 
be." 

"Do  you  recognize  what  you  were  born  to  be?  Not  only  a 
nobleman,  but  a  gentleman;  not  only  a  gentleman,  but  a  man 
— man,  made  in  the  image  of  God.  How  can  you,  how  dare 
you,  give  the  lie  to  your  Creator?" 

"What  has  he  given  me?    What  have  I  to  thank  him  for?" 

"First,  manhood;  the  manhood  His  Son  disdained  not  to 
wear;  worldly  gifts,  such  as  rank,  riches,  influence,  things 
which  others  have  to  spend  half  an  existence  in  earning;  life 
in  its  best  prime,  with  much  of  youth  yet  remaining — with 
grief  endured,  wisdom  learned,  experience  won.  Would  to 
Heaven,  that  by  any  poor  word  of  mine  I  could  make  you  feel 
all  that  you  are — all  that  you  might  be!" 

A  gleam,  bright  as  a  boy's  hope,  wild  as  a  boy's  daring, 
flashed  from  those  listless  eyes — then  faded. 

"You  mean,  Mr.  Halifax,  what  I  might  have  been.  Now  it 
is  too  late." 

"There  is  no  such  word  as  'too  late/  in  the  wide  world — 
nay,  not  in  the  universe.  What!  shall  we,  whose  atom  of  time 
is  but  a  fragment  out  of  an  ever-present  eternity — shall  we, 
so  long  as  we  live,  or  even  at  our  life's  ending,  dare  to  cry  out 
to  the  Eternal  One,  'It  is  too  late!'  * 

As  John  spoke,  in  much  more  excitement  than  was  usual 
to  him,  a  sudden  flush  or  rather  spasm  of  color  flushed  his 
face,  then  faded  away,  leaving  him  pallid  to  the  very  lips.  He 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  419 

sat  down  hastily,  in  his  frequent  attitude,  with  the  left  arm 
passed  across  his  breast. 

"Lord  Eavenel "  His  voice  was  faint,  as  though  speech 

was  painful  to  him. 

The  other  looked  up,  the  old  look  of  reverent  attention, 
which  I  remembered  in  the  boy-lord  who  came  to  see  us  at 
Norton  Bury;  in  the  young  "Anselmo,"  whose  enthusiastic 
hero-worship  had  fixed  itself,  with  an  almost  unreasoning 
trust,  on  Muriel's  father. 

"Lord  Eavenel,  forgive  anything  I  have  said  that  may  have 
hurt  you.  It  would  grieve  me  inexpressibly  if  we  did  not  part 
as  friends." 

"Part?" 

"For  a  time,  we  must.  I  dare  not  risk  further  either  your 
happiness  or  my  child's." 

"No,  not  hers.  Guard  it.  I  blame  you  not.  The  lovely, 
innocent  child!  God  forbid  she  should  ever  have  a  life  like 
mine!" 

He  sat  silent,  his  clasped  hands  listlessly  dropping,  his 
countenance  dreamy;  yet,  it  seemed  to  me,  less  hopelessly  sad; 
then  with  a  sudden  effort  rose. 

"I  must  go  now." 

Crossing  over  to  Mrs.  Halifax,  he  thanked  her,  with  much 
emotion,  for  all  her  kindness. 

"For  your  husband,  I  owe  him  more  than  kindness,  as  per- 
haps I  may  prove  some  day.  If  not,  try  to  believe  the  best  of 
me  you  can.  Good-by." 

They  both  said  good-by,  and  bade  God  bless  him;  with 
scarcely  less  tenderness  than  if  things  had  ended  as  he  de- 
sired, and,  instead  of  this  farewell,  sad  and  indefinite  beyond 
most  farewells,  they  were  giving  the  parental  welcome  to  a 
newly-chosen  son. 

Ere  finally  quitting  us,  Lord  Ravenel  turned  back  to  speak 
to  John  once  more,  hesitatingly  and  mournfully. 

"If  she — if  the  child  should  ask  or  wonder  about  my  ab- 
sence— she  likes  me  in  her  innocent  way,  you  know — you  will 
tell  her— What  shall  you  tell  her?" 

"Nothing.    It  is  best  not." 

"Ay,  it  is,  it  is." 

He  shook  hands  with  us  all  three,  without  saying  anything 
else;  then  the  carriage  rolled  away,  and  we  saw  his  face— that 
pale,  gentle,  melancholy  face — no  more. 


420  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

It  was  years  and  years  before  any  one  beyond  ourselves 
knew  what  a  near  escape  our  little  Maud  had  had  of  becoming 
Viscountess  Ravenel — future  Countess  of  Luxmore. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

It  was  not  many  weeks  after  this  departure  of  Lord  Ra- 
venel's — the  pain  of  which  was  almost  forgotten  in  the  com- 
fort of  Guy's  first  long  home  letter,  which  came  about  this 
time — that  John  one  morning,  suddenly  dropping  his  news- 
paper, exclaimed: 

"Lord  Luxmore  is  dead." 

Yes,  he  had  returned  to  his  dust,  this  old  bad  man;  so  old 
that  people  had  begun  to  think  he  would  never  die.  He  was 
gone;  the  man  who,  if  we  owned  an  enemy  in  the  world;  had 
certainly  proved  himself  that  enemy.  Something  peculiar  is 
there  in  a  decease  like  this — of  one  whom  living,  we  have  al- 
ways felt  ourselves  justified  in  condemning,  avoiding — per- 
haps hating.  Until  death,  stepping  in  between,  removes  him 
to  another  tribunal  than  this  petty  justice  of  ours,  and  laying 
a  solemn  finger  upon  our  mouths,  forbids  us  either  to  think  or 
utter  a  word  of  hatred  against  that  which  is  now — what? — a 
disembodied  spirit — a  handful  of  corrupting  clay. 

Lord  Luxmore  was  dead.  He  had  gone  to  his  account;  it 
was  not  ours  to  judge  him.  We  never  knew — I  believe  no  one 
except  his  son  ever  fully  knew — the  history  of  his  death-bed. 

John  sat  in  silence,  the  paper  before  him,  long  after  we 
had  passed  the  news  and  discussed  it,  not  without  awe,  all 
round  the  breakfast  table. 

Maud  stole  up,  hesitatingly,  and  asked  to  see  the  announce- 
ment of  the  earl's  decease. 

"No,  my  child;  but  you  shall  hear  it  read  aloud,  if  you 
choose." 

I  guessed  the  reason  of  his  refusal;  when  looking  over  him 
as  he  read,  I  saw,  after  the  long  list  of  titles  owned  by  the  new 
Earl  of  Luxmore,  one  bitter  line;  how  it  must  have  cut  to  the 
heart  of  him  whom  we  first  heard  of  as  "poor  William!" 

"Had  likewise  issue,  Caroline,  married  in  17 — ,  to  Rich- 
ard Brithwood,  Esquire,  afterward  divorced." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  421 

And  by  a  curious  coincidence,  about  twenty  lines  further 
down  I  read  among  the  fashionable  marriages: 

"At  the  British  Embassy,  Paris,  Sir  Gerard  Vermilye,  Bart., 
to  the  youthful  and  beautiful  daughter  of " 

I  forget  who.  I  only  saw  that  the  name  was  not  her  name, 
of  whom  the  "youthful  and  beautiful"  bride  had  most  likely 
never  heard.  He  had  not  married  Lady  Caroline. 

This  morning's  intelligence  brought  the  Luxmore  family 
so  much  to  our  thoughts  that,  driving  out  after  breakfast, 
John  and  I  involuntarily  recurred  to  the  subject.  Nay,  talk- 
ing on,  in  the  solitude  of  our  front  seat — for  Mrs.  Halifax, 
Miss  Halifax,  and  Mrs.  Edwin  Halifax,  in  the  carriage  behind, 
were  deep  in  some  other  subject — we  fell  upon  a  topic  which 
by  tacit  consent  had  been  laid  aside,  as  in  our  household  we 
held  it  good  to  lay  aside,  any  inevitable  regret. 

"Poor  Maud,  how  eager  she  was  to  hear  the  news  to-day! 
She  little  thinks  how  vitally  it  might  have  concerned  her." 

"No,"  John  answered,  thoughtfully;  then  asked  me  with 
some  abruptness:  "Why  did  you  say  'poor  Maud?": 

I  really  could  not  tell;  it  was  a  mere  accident,  the  unwrit- 
ten indication  of  some  crotchets  of  mine,  which  had  often 
come  into  my  mind  lately.  Crotchets,  perhaps  peculiar  to 
one  who,  never  having  known  a  certain  possession,  found  him- 
self rather  prone  to  overrate  its  value.  But  it  sometimes 
struck  me  as  hard,  considering  how  little  honest  and  sincere 
love  there  is  in  the  world,  that  Maud  should  never  have 
known  of  Lord  Ravenel's. 

Possibly,  against  my  will,  my  answer  implied  something  of 
tins;  for  John  was  a  long  time  silent.  Then  he  began  to  talk 
of  various  matters;  telling  me  of  many  improvements  he  was 
planning  and  executing  on  his  property,  and  among  his  peo- 
ple. In  all  his  plans,  and  in  the  carrying  out  of  them,  I  no- 
ticed one  peculiarity,  strong  in  him  throughout  his  life,  but 
latterly  grown  stronger  than  ever — namely,  that  whatever 
he  found  to  do,  he  did  immediately.  Procrastination  had 
never  been  one  of  his  faults;  now,  he  seemed  to  have  a  horror 
of  putting  anything  off  even  for  a  single  hour.  Nothing  that 
could  be  done  did  he  lay  aside  until  it  was  done;  his  business 
affairs  were  kept  in  perfect  order;  each  day's  work  being  com- 
pleted with  the  day.  And  in  the  thousand-and-one  little 
things  that  were  constantly  arising  from  his  position  as  magis- 
trate <xnci  land-owner,  and  his  general  interest  in  the  move- 


422  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

ments  of  the  time,  the  same  system  was  invariably  pursued. 
In  his  relations  with  the  world  outside,  as  in  his  own  little 
valley,  he  seemed  determined  to  "work  while  it  was  day."  If 
he  could  possibly  avoid  it,  no  application  was  ever  unattended 
to;  no  duty  left  unfinished;  no  good  unacknowledged;  no 
evil  unremedied,  or  at  least  unf orgiven. 

"John,"  I  said,  as  to-day  this  peculiarity  of  his  struck  me 
more  than  usual,  "thou  art  certainly  one  of  the  faithful  ser- 
vants whom  the  Master  when  He  cometh  will  find  watching." 

"I  hope  so.  It  ought  to  be  thus  with  all  men — but  espe- 
cially with  me." 

I  imagined  from  his  tone,  that  he  was  thinking  of  his  re- 
sponsibility as  father,  master,  owner  of  large  wealth.  How 
could  I  know — how  could  I  guess — beyond  this!" 

"Do  you  think  she  looks  pale,  Phineas?"  he  asked,  sud- 
denly. 

"Who— your  wife?" 

"No— Maud.     My  little  Maud." 

It  was  but  lately  that  he  called  her  "his"  little  Maud;  since 
with  that  extreme  tenacity  of  attachment  which  was  a  part  of 
his  nature — refusing  to  put  any  one  love  in  another  love's  place 
— his  second  daughter  had  never  been  to  him  like  the  first. 
Now,  however,  I  had  noticed  that  he  took  Maud  nearer  to  his 
heart,  made  her  more  often  his  companion,  watching  her  with 
a  sedulous  tenderness — it  was  easy  to  guess  why. 

"She  may  have  looked  a  little  paler  of  late,  a  little  more 
thoughtful.  But  I  am  sure  she  is  not  unhappy." 

"I  believe  not— thank  God!" 

"Surely,"  I  said,  anxiously,  "you  have  never  repented  what 
you  did  about  Lord  Ravenel?" 

"No — not  once.  It  cost  me  so  much  that  I  know  it  was 
right  to  be  done." 

"But  if  things  had  been  otherwise — if  you  had  not  been  so 
sure  of  Maud's  feelings " 

He  started  painfully;  then  answered — "I  think  I  should 
have  done  it  still." 

I  was  silent.  The  paramount  right,  the  high  prerogative 
of  love,  which  he  held  as  strongly  as  I  did,  seemed  attacked 
in  its  liberty  divine.  For  the  moment,  it  was  as  if  he  too  had 
in  his  middle-age  gone  over  to  the  cold-blooded  ranks  of  harsh 
parental  prudence,  despotic  paternal  rule;  as  if  Ursula  March's 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  423 

lover  and  Maud's  father  were  two  distinct  beings.  One  finds 
it  so,  often  enough,  with  men. 

"John,"  I  said,  "could  you  have  done  it?  could  you  have 
broken  the  child's  heart?" 

"Yes,  if  it  were  to  save  her  peace,  perhaps  her  soul,  I  could 
have  broken  my  child's  heart." 

He  spoke  solemnly,  with  an  accent  of  inexpressible  pain,  as 
if  this  were  not  the  first  time  by  many  that  he  had  pondered 
over  such  a  possibility. 

"I  wish,  Phineas,  to  make  clear  to  you,  in  ease  of — of  any 
future  misconceptions — my  mind  on  this  matter.  One  right 
alone  I  hold  superior  to  the  right  of  love — duty.  It  is  a  fa- 
ther's duty,  at  all  risks,  at  all  costs,  to  save  his  child  from  any- 
thing which  he  believes  would  peril  her  duty — so  long  as  she 
is  too  young  to  understand  fully  how  beyond  the  claim  of  any 
human  being,  be  it  father  or  lover,  is  God's  claim  to  herself 
and  her  immortal  soul.  Anything  which  would  endanger 
that  should  be  cut  off — though  it  be  the  right  hand — the  right 
eye.  But,  thank  God,  it  was  not  thus  with  my  little  Maud." 

"Nor  with  him,  either.     He  bore  his  disappointment  well." 

"Nobly.  It  may  make  a  true  nobleman  of  him  yet.  But, 
being  what  he  is,  and  for  as  long  as  he  remains  so,  he  must 
not  be  trusted  with  my  little  Maud.  I  must  take  care  of  her 
while  I  live;  afterward " 

His  smile  faded,  or  rather  was  transmitted  into  that  grave 
thoughtfulness  which  I  had  lately  noticed  in  him.  when,  as 
now,  he  fell  into  one  of  his  long  silences.  There  was  nothing 
sad  about  it;  rather  a  serenity  which  reminded  me  of  that 
sweet  look  of  his  boyhood,  which  had  vanished  during  the 
manifold  cares  of  his  middle  life.  The  expression  of  his 
mouth,  as  I  saw  it  in  profile — close  and  calm — almost  inclined 
me  to  go  back  to  the  fanciful  follies  of  our  youth,  and  call 
him  "David." 

We  drove  through  Norton  Bury,  and  left  Mrs.  Edwin  there. 
Then  on,  along  the  familiar  road  toward  the  Manor-house; 
past  the  white  gate,  within  sight  of  little  Longfield. 

"It  looks  just  the  same;  the  tenant  takes  good  care  of  it." 
And  John's  eyes  turned  fondly  to  his  old  home. 

"Ay,  just  the  same.  Do  you  know  your  wife  was  saying  to 
me  this  morning  that  when  Guy  comes  back,  when  all  the 
young  folks  are  married,  and  you  retire  from  business  and 
settle  into  the  otium  cum  dignitate,  the  learned  leisure  you 


424  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

used  to  plan,  she  would  like  to  give  up  Beech  wood?  She 
said  she  hopes  you  and  she  will  end  your  days  together  at  little 
Longfield." 

"Did  she?    Yes,  I  know  that  has  been  always  her  dream." 

"Scarcely  a  dream,  or  one  that  is  not  unlikely  to  be  ful- 
filled. I  like  to  fancy  you  both  two  old  people  sitting  on 
either  side  the  fire,  or  on  the  same  side,  if  you  like  it  best; 
very  cheerful — you  will  make  such  a  merry  old  man,  John, 
with  all  your  children  round  you,  and  indefinite  grand-chil- 
dren about  the  house  continually.  Or  else  you  two  will  sit 
alone  together,  just  as  in  your  early  married  days — you  ami 
your  old  wife — the  dearest  and  handsomest  old  lady  that  was 
ever  seen." 

"Phineas,  don't — don't!"  I  was  startled  by  the  tone  in 
which  he  answered  the  lightness  of  mine.  "I  mean — don't 
be  planning  out  the  future.  It  is  foolish;  it  is  almost  wrong. 
God's  will  is  not  as  our  will;  and  He  knows  best." 

I  would  have  spoken,  but  just  then  we  reached  the  Manor- 
house  gate,  and  plunged  at  once  into  present  life,  and  into 
the  hospitable  circle  of  the  Oldtowers. 

They  were  all  in  the  excitement  of  a  wonderful  piece  of 
gossip — gossip  so  strange,  sudden,  and  unprecedented  that  it 
absorbed  all  lesser  matters.  It  burst  out  before  we  had  been 
in  the  house  five  minutes. 

"Have  you  heard  this  extraordinary  report  about  the  Lux- 
more  family?" 

I  could  see  Maud  turn  with  eager  attention,  fixing  her  eyes 
wistfully  on  Lady  Oldtower. 

"About  the  earl's  death?  Yes,  we  saw  it  in  the  news- 
paper." And  John  passed  on  to  some  other  point  of  conver- 
sation. In  vain. 

"This  news  relates  to  the  present  earl.  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing — never.  In  fact,  if  true,  his  conduct  is  some- 
thing which  in  its  self-denial  approaches  absolute  insanity.  Is 
it  possible  that,  being  so  great  a  friend  of  your  family,  he  has 
not  informed  you  of  the  circumstances?" 

These  circumstances,  with  some  patience,  we  extracted 
from  the  voluble  Lady  Oldtower.  She  had  learned  them — I 
forget  how;  but  ill  news  never  wants  a  tongue  to  carry  it. 

It  seemed  that  on  the  earl's  death  it  was  discovered — what 
had  already  been  long  suspected — that  his  liabilities,  like  his 
extravagances,  were  enormous;  that  he  was  obliged  to  live 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  425 

abroad  to  escape  in  some  degree  the  clamorous  haunting  of 
the  hundreds  he  had  ruined;  poor  tradespeople,  who  knew 
that  their  only  chance  of  payment  was  during  the  old  man's 
lifetime,  for  his  whole  property  was  entailed  on  the  son. 

Whether  Lord  Eavenel  had  ever  been  acquainted  with  this 
state  of  things,  or  whether,  being  in  ignorance  of  it,  his  own 
style  of  living  had  in  a  degree  imitated  his  father's,  rumor  did 
not  say,  nor,  indeed,  was  it  of  much  consequence.  The  facts 
subsequently  becoming  known  immediately  after  Lord  Lux- 
more's  death,  made  all  former  conjectures  unnecessary. 

Not  a  week  before  he  died,  the  late  earl  and  his  son — 
chiefly,  it  was  believed,  on  the  tatter's  instigation — had  cut  off 
the  entail,  thereby  making  the  whole  property  salable,  and 
available  for  the  payment  of  creditors.  Thus,  by  his  own  act, 
and,  as  some  one  had  told  somebody  that  somebody  else  had 
heard  Lord  Eavenel  say,  "for  the  honor  of  the  family,"  the 
present  earl  had  succeeded  to  an  empty  title,  and — beggary. 

"Or,"  Lady  Oldtower  added,  "what  to  a  man  of  rank  will 
be  the  same  as  beggary — a  paltry  two  hundred  a  year  or  so — 
which  he  has  reserved,  they  say,  just  to  keep  him  from  desti- 
tution. Ah,  here  comes  Mr.  Jessop;  I  thought  he  would.  He 
can  tell  us  all  about  it." 

Old  Mr.  Jessop  was  as  much  excited  as  any  one  present. 

"Ay — it's  all  true — only  too  true,  Mr.  Halifax.  He  was  at 
my  house  last  night." 

"Last  night!"  I  do  not  think  anybody  caught  the  child's 
exclamation  but  me;  I  could  not  help  watching  little  Maud, 
noticing  what  strong  emotion,  still  perfectly  childlike  and  un- 
guarded in  its  demonstration,  was  shaking  her  innocent  bo- 
som and  overflowing  at  her  eyes,  However,  as  she  sat  still  in 
the  corner,  nobody  observed  her. 

"Yes,  he  slept  at  my  house — Lord  Eavenel,  the  Earl  of 
Luxmore,  I  mean.  Much  good  will  his  title  do  him!  My 
head  clerk  is  better  off  than  he.  He  has  stripped  himself  of 
every  penny,  except — bless  me,  I  forgot — Mr.  Halifax,  he 
gave  me  a  letter  for  you." 

John  walked  to  the  window  to  read  it;  but  having  read  it, 
passed  it  openly  round  the  circle,  as  indeed  was  best. 

"My  Dear  Friend;  You  will  have  heard  that  my  father  is  no 
wore." 


426  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

("He  used  always  to  say  'the  Earl/  "  whispered  Maud,  as 
she  looked  over  my  shoulder.) 

"I  write  this  merely  to  say — what  I  feel  sure  you  will  already 
have  believed — that  anything  which  you  learn  concerning  his 
affairs,  I  was  myself  unaware  of,  except  in  a  very  slight  degree, 
when  I  last  visited  Beechwood. 

"Will  you  likewise  believe  that  in  all  I  have  done  or  intend 
doing,  your  interests  as  my  tenant — which  I  hope  you  will  re- 
main— have  been,  and  shall  be,  sedulously  guarded. 

"My  grateful  remembrance  to  all  your  household. 

"Faithfully  yours,  and  theirs, 

"LUXMORE." 

"Give  me  back  the  letter,  Maud,  my  child." 

She  had  been  taking  possession  of  it,  as  in  right  of  being 
his  "pet/'  she  generally  did  of  all  Lord  Eavenel's  letters. 
But  now,  without  a  word  of  objection,  she  surrendered  it  to 
her  father. 

"What  does  he  mean,  Mr.  Jessop,  about  my  interests  as  his 
tenant?" 

"Bless  me — I  am  so  grieved  about  the  matter,  that  every- 
thing goes  astray  in  my  head.  He  wished  me  to  explain  to 
you  that  he  has  reserved  one  portion  of  the  Luxmore  property 
intact — Enderley  mills.  The  rent  you  pay  will,  he  says,  be 
a  sufficient  income  for  him,  and  then  while  your  lease  lasts  no 
other  landlord  can  injure  you.  Very  thoughtful  of  him — 
very  thoughtful  indeed,  Mr.  Halifax." 

John  made  no  answer. 

"I  never  saw  a  man  so  altered.  He  went  over  some  mat- 
ters with  me — private  charities,  in  which  I  have  been  his 
agent,  you  know — grave,  clear-headed,  business-like;  my  clerk 
himself  could  not  have  done  better.  Afterward  we  sat  and 
talked,  and  I  tried — foolishly  enough,  when  the  thing  was 
done — to  show  him  what  a  frantic  act  it  was  both  toward  him- 
self and  his  heirs.  But  he  could  not  see  it.  He  said  cutting 
off  the  entail  would  harm  nobody — for  that  he  did  not  intend 
ever  to  marry.  Poor  fellow!" 

"Is  he  with  you  still?"  John  asked,  in  a  low  tone. 

"No;  he  left  this  morning  for  Paris;  his  father  is  to  be 
buried  there.  Afterward,  he  said,  his  movements  were  quite 
uncertain.  He  bade  me  good-by.  I — I  didn't  like  it,  I  can 
assure  you." 

And  the  old  man,  blowing  his  nose  with  his  yellow  pocket- 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  427 

handkerchief,  and  twitching  his  features  into  all  manner  of 
shapes,  seemed  determined  to  put  side  the  melancholy  subject, 
and  dilated  on  the  earl  and  his  affairs  no  more. 

Nor  did  any  one.  Something  in  this  young  nobleman's 
noble  act — it  has  since  been  not  without  a  parallel  among  our 
aristocracy — silenced  the  tongue  of  gossip  itself.  The  deed 
was  so  new — so  unlike  anything  that  had  been  conceived  pos- 
sible, especially  in  a  man  like  Lord  Ravenel,  who  had  always 
borne  the  character  of  a  harmless,  idle,  misanthropic  nonen- 
tity— that  society  was  really  nonplussed  concerning  it.  Of 
the  many  loquacious  visitors  who  came  that  morning  to  pour 
upon  Lady  Oldtower  all  the  curiosity  of  Coltham — fashion- 
able Coltham,  famous  for  all  the  scandal  of  haut  ton — there 
was  none  who  did  not  speak  of  Lord  Luxmore  and  his  affairs 
with  an  uncomfortable,  wondering  awe.  Some  suggested  he 
was  going  mad — others,  raking  up  stories  current  of  his  early 
youth,  thought  he  had  turned  Catholic  again  and  was  about 
to  enter  a  monastery.  One  or  two  honest  hearts  protested 
that  he  was  a  noble  fellow,  and  it  was  a  pity  he  had  deter- 
mined to  be  the  last  of  the  Luxmores. 

For  ourselves — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax,  Maud  and  I — we 
never  spoke  to  one  another  on  the  subject  all  morning.  Not 
until  after  luncheon,  when  John  and  I  had  somehow  stolen 
out  of  the  way  of  the  visitors,  and  were  walking  to  and  fro 
in  the  garden.  The  sunny  fruit-garden — ancient,  Dutch 
and  square — with  its  barricade  of  a  high  hedge,  a  stone  wall, 
and  between  it  and  the  house  a  shining  fence  of  great  laurel- 
trees. 

Maud  appeared  suddenly  before  us  from  among  these  laur- 
els, breathless. 

"I  got  away  after  you,  father.  I — I  wanted  to  find  some 
strawberries — and — I  wanted  to  speak  to  you." 

"Speak  on,  little  lady." 

He  linked  her  arm  in  his,  and  she  paced  between  us  up  and 
down  the  broad  walk — but  without  diverging  to  the  straw- 
berry beds.  She  was  grave  and  paler  than  ordinary.  Her 
father  asked  if  she  were  tired? 

"No,  but  my  head  aches.  Those  Coltham  people  do  talk 
so!  Father,  I  want  you  to  explain  to  me,  for  I  can't  well 
understand  it,  all  this  that  they  have  been  saying  about  Lord 
Ravenel." 

John  explained  as  simply  and  briefly  as  he  could. 


428  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"I  understand.  Then,  though  he  is  Earl  of  Luxmore,  he 
is  quite  poor — poorer  than  any  of  us?  And  he  has  made  him- 
self poor  in  order  to  pay  his  own  and  his  father's  debts,  and 
keep  other  people  from  suffering  from  any  fault  of  his?  Is 
it  so?" 

"Yes,  my  child." 

"Is  it  not  a  very  noble  act,  father?" 

"Very  noble." 

"I  think  it  is  the  noblest  act  I  ever  heard  of.  I  should  like 
to  tell  him  so.  When  is  he  coming  to  Beech  wood?" 

Maud  spoke  quickly,  with  flushed  cheeks,  in  the  impetuous 
mannner  she  inherited  from  her  mother.  Her  question  not 
being  immediately  answered,  she  repeated  it  still  more 
eagerly. 

Her  father  replied — "I  do  not  know." 

"How  very  strange!  I  thought  he  would  come  at  once — 
to-night  probably." 

I  reminded  her  that  Lord  Ravenel  had  left  for  Paris,  bid- 
ding good-by  to  Mr.  Jessop. 

"He  ought  to  have  come  to  us  instead  of  to  Mr.  Jessop. 
Write  and  tell  him  so,  father.  Tell  him  how  glad  we  shall  be 
to  see  him.  And  perhaps  you  can  help  him;  you  who  help 
everybody.  He  always  said  you  were  his  best  friend." 

"Did  he?" 

"Ah,  now,  do  write,  father  dear — I  am  sure  you  will." 

John  looked  down  on  the  little  maid  who  hung  on  his  arm 
so  persuasively,  then  looked  sorrowfully  away. 

"My  child— I  cannot." 

"What,  not  write  to  him?  When  he  is  poor  and  in 
trouble?  That  is  not  like  you,  father,"  and  Maud  half  loosed 
her  arm. 

Her  father  quietly  put  the  little  rebellious  hand  back  again 
to  its  place.  He  was  evidently  debating  within  himself 
whether  he  should  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  or  how  much  of  it. 
Not  that  the  debate  was  new,  for  he  must  already  have  fore- 
seen this  possible,  nay,  certain,  conjuncture;  especially  as  all 
his  dealings  with  his  family  had  hitherto  been  open  as  day- 
light. He  held  that  to  prevaricate,  or  willfully  to  give  the 
impression  of  a  falsehood,  is  almost  as  mean  as  a  direct  lie. 
When  anything  occurred  that  he  could  not  tell  his  children, 
he  always  said  plainly,  "I  can  not  tell  you,"  and  they  asked  no 
more. 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  429 

I  wondered  exceedingly  how  he  would  deal  with  Maud. 

She  walked  with  him,  submissive  yet  not  satisfied,  glancing 
at  him  from  time  to  time,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  At  last 
she  could  wait  no  longer. 

"I  am  sure  there  is  something  wrong.  You  do  not  care  for 
Lord  Ravenel  as  much  as  you  used  to  do." 

"More,  if  possible." 

"Then  write  to  him.  Say  we  want  to  see  him — I  want  to 
see  him.  Ask  him  to  come  and  stay  a  long  while  at  Beech- 
wood." 

"I  cannot,  Maud.  It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  come. 
I  do  not  think  he  is  likely  to  visit  Beechwood  for  some  time." 

"How  long?     Six  months?    A  year,  perhaps?" 

"It  may  be  several  years." 

"Then  I  was  right.  Something  has  happened;  you  are 
not  friends  with  him  any  longer.  And  he  is  poor — in  trouble 
—oh,  father!" 

She  snatched  her  hand  away,  and  flashed  upon  him  re- 
proachful eyes.  John  took  her  gently  by  the  arm,  and  made 
her  sit  down  upon  the  wall  of  a  little  stone  bridge,  under 
which  the  moat  slipped  with  a  quiet  murmur.  Maud's  tears 
dropped  into  it  fast  and  free. 

That  very  outburst,  brief  and  thundery  as  a  child's  pas- 
sion, gave  consolation  both  to  her  father  and  me.  When  it 
lessened,  John  spoke. 

"Now  has  my  little  Maud  ceased  to  be  angry  with  her  fa- 
ther?" 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  angry — only  I  was  so  startled — so 
grieved.  Tell  me  what  has  happened,  please,  father?" 

"I  will  tell  you — so  far  as  I  can.  Lord  Ravenel  and  my- 
self had  some  conversation,  of  a  very  painful  kind,  the  last 
night  he  was  with  us.  After  it,  we  both  considered  it  ad- 
visable he  should  not  visit  us  again  for  the  present." 

"Why  not?  Had  you  quarreled?  or  if  you  had,  I  thought 
my  father  was  always  the  first  to  forgive  everybody." 

"No,  Maud,  we  had  not  quarreled." 

"Then,  what  was  it?" 

"My  child,  you  must  not  ask,  for  indeed  I  cannot  tell  you." 

Maud  sprang  up — the  rebellious  spirit  flashing  out  again. 

"Not  tell  me — me,  his  pet — me,  that  cared  for  him  more 
than  any  of  you  did.  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  me,  father," 

"You  must  allow  me  to  decide  that,  if  you  please," 


430  JOHN   HALIFAX.   GENTLEMAN. 

After  this  answer  Maud  paused,  and  said,  humbly,  "Does 
any  one  else  know?" 

"Your  mother,  and  your  Uncle  Phineas,  who  happened  to 
be  present  at  the  time.  No  one  else;  and  no  one  else  shall 
know." 

John  spoke  with  that  slight  quivering  and  blueness  of  the 
lips  which  any  mental  excitement  usually  produced  in  him. 
He  sat  down  by  his  daughter's  side  and  took  her  hand. 

"I  knew  this  would  grieve  you,  and  I  kept  it  from  you  as 
long  as  I  could.  Now  you  must  only  be  patient,  and  like  a 
good  child  trust  your  father." 

Something  in  his  manner  quieted  her.  She  only  sighed, 
and  said,  "She  could  not  understand  it." 

"Neither  can  I,  oftentimes,  my  poor  little  Maud.  There 
are  so  many  sad  things  in  life  that  we  have  to  take  upon  trust, 
and  bear,  and  be  patient  with — yet  never  understand.  I  sup- 
pose we  shall  some  day." 

His  eyes  wandered  upward  to  the  wide-arched  blue  sky, 
which  in  its  calm  beauty  makes  us  fancy  that  Paradise  is 
there,  even  though  we  know  that  "the  kingdom  of  Heaven 
is  within  us,"  and  that  the  kingdom  of  spirits  may  be  around 
us  and  about  us,  everywhere. 

Maud  looked  at  her  father,  and  crept  closer  to  him — into 
his  arms. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  naughty.  I  will  try  not  to  mind 
losing  him.  But  I  liked  Lord  Eavenel  so  much — and  he  was 
so  fond  of  me." 

"Child" — and  her  father  himself  could  not  help  smiling 
at  the  simplicity  of  her  speech — "it  is  often  easiest  to  lose 
those  we  are  fond  of  and  who  are  fond  of  us,  because  in  one 
sense  we  never  can  really  lose  them.  Nothing  in  this  world, 
nor,  I  believe,  in  any  other,  can  part  those  who  truly  and 
faithfully  love." 

I  think  he  was  hardly  aware  how  much  he  was  implying, 
at  least  not  in  its  relation  to  her,  or  else  he  would  not  have 
said  it.  And  he  would  surely  have  noticed,  as  I  did,  that  the 
word  "love"  which  had  not  been  mentioned  before — it  was 
"liking,"  "fond  of,"  "care  for,"  or  some  such  roundabout 
childish  phrase — the  word  "love"  made  Maud  start.  She 
darted  from  one  to  the  other  of  us  a  keen  glance  of  inquiry, 
and  then  turned  tfce  color  of  a  July  rose. 

Her  attitude,  her  blushes,  the  shy  trembling  about  her 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  431 

mouth,-  reminded  me  vividly,  too  vividly,  of  her  mother 
twenty-eight  years  ago. 

Alarmed,  I  tried  to  hasten  the  end  of  our  conversation, 
lest,  voluntarily  or  involuntarily,  it  might  produce  the  very 
results  which,  though  they  might  not  have  altered  John's 
determination,  would  have  almost  broken  his  heart. 

So,  begging  her  to  "kiss  and  make  friends,"  which  Maud 
did,  timidly,  and  without  attempting  further  questions,  I 
hurried  the  father  and  daughter  into  the  house;  deferring  for 
mature  consideration  the  question  whether  or  not  I  should 
trouble  John  with  any  too-anxious  doubts  of  mine  concerning 
her. 

As  we  drove  back  through  Norton  Bury,  I  saw  that  while 
her  mother  and  Lady  Oldtower  conversed,  Maud  sat  opposite 
rather  more  silent  than  her  wont;  but  when  the  ladies  dis- 
mounted for  shopping,  she  was  again  the  lively,  independ- 
ent Miss  Halifax, 

"Standing  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  womanhood  and  childhood  meet," 

and  assuming  at  once  the  prerogatives  and  immunities  of 
both. 

Her  girlish  ladyship  at  last  got  tired  of  silks  and  ribbons, 
and  stood  with  me  at  the  shop-door,  amusing  herself  with 
commenting  on  the  passers-by. 

These  were  not  so  plentiful  as  I  once  remembered,  though 
still  the  old  town  wore  its  old  face — appearing  fairer  than 
ever  as  I  myself  grew  older.  The  same  Coltham  coach  stopped 
at  the  Lamb  Inn,  and  the  same  group  of  idle  loungers  took 
an  interest  in  its  disemboguing  of  its  contents.  But  railways 
had  done  an  ill  turn  to  the  coach  and  to  poor  Norton  Bury; 
where  there  used  to  be  six  inside  passengers,  to-day  was 
turned  out  only  one. 

"What  a  queer-looking  little  woman!  Uncle  Phineas,  peo- 
ple shouldn't  dress  so  fine  as  that  when  they  are  old." 

Maud's  criticism  was  scarcely  just.  The  light-colored, 
flimsy-gown,  shorter  than  even  Coltham  fashionables  would 
have  esteemed  decent,  the  fluttering  bonnet,  the  abundance 
of  flaunting  curls — no  wonder  {hat  the  stranger  attracted 
considerable  notice  in  quiet  Norton  Bury.  As  she  tripped 
mincingly  along,  in  her  silk  stockings  and  light  shoes,  a 
smothered  jeer  arose. 


432  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"People  should  not  laugh  at  an  old  woman,  however  con- 
ceited she  may  be,"  said  Maud,  indignantly. 

"Is  she  old?" 

"Just  look." 

And  surely  when,  as  she  turned  from  side  to  side,  I  caught 
her  full  face — what  a  face  it  was!  withered,  thin,  sallow 
almost  to  deathliness,  with  a  bright  rouge-spot  on  each  cheek, 
a  broad  smile  on  the  ghastly  mouth. 

"Is  she  crazy,  Uncle  Phineas?" 

"Possibly.  Do  not  look  at  her."  For  I  was  sure  this  must 
be  the  wreck  of  such  a  life  as  womanhood  does  sometimes 
sink  to — a  life,  the  mere  knowledge  of  which  had  never  yet 
entered  Maud's  pure  world. 

She  seemed  surprised,  but  obeyed  me  and  went  in.  I 
stood  at  the  shop-door,  watching  the  increasing  crowd, 
and  pitying,  with  that  pity  mixed  with  shame  that  every  hon- 
est man  must  feel  toward  a  degraded  woman,  the  wretched 
object  of  their  jeers.  Half-frightened,  she  still  kept  up  that 
set  smile,  skipping  daintily  from  side  to  side  of  the  pavement, 
darting  at  and  peering  into  every  carriage  that  passed.  Mis- 
erable creature  as  she  looked,  there  was  a  certain  grace  and 
ease  in  her  movements,  as  if  she  had  fallen  from  some  far 
higher  estate. 

At  the  moment  the  Mythe  carriage,  with  Mr.  Brithwood 
in  it,  dozing  his  daily  drive  away,  his  gouty  foot  propped 
up  before  him,  slowly  lumbered  up  the  street.  The  woman 
made  a  dart  at  it,  but  was  held  back. 

"Canaille!  I  always  hated  your  Norton  Bury!  Call  my 
carriage.  I  will  go  home." 

Through  its  coarse  discordance,  its  insane  rage,  I  thought 
I  knew  the  voice.  Especially  when,  assuming  a  voice  of 
command,  she  addressed  the  old  coachman: 

"Draw  up,  Peter;  you  are  very  late.  People,  give  way! 
Don't  you  see  my  carriage?" 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter,  so  loud  that  even  Mr.  Brith- 
wood opened  his  dull,  drunken  eyes  and  stared  about  him. 

"Canaille!"  and  the  scream  was  more  of  terror  than  anger 
as  she  almost  flung  herself  under  the  horses'  heads  in  her 
eagerness  to  escape  from  the  mob.  "Let  me  go!  My  carriage 
is  waiting.  I  am  Lady  Caroline  Brithwood!" 

The  'squire  heard  her.  For  a  single  instant  they  gazed 
at  one  another — besotted  husband,  dishonored,  divorced  wife 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  433 

— gazed  with  horror  and  fear,  as  two  sinners  who  had  been 
each  other's  undoing  might  meet  in  the  poetic  torments  of 
Dante's  "Inferno,"  or  the  tangible  fire  and  brimstone  of 
many  a  blind  but  honest  Christian's  hell.  One  single  instant, 
and  then  Eichard  Brithwood  made  up  his  mind. 

"Coachman,  drive  on!" 

But  the  man — he  was  an  old  man — seemed  to  hesitate  at 
urging  his  horses  right  over  "my  lady."  He  even  looked 
down  on  her  with  a  sort  of  compassion.  I  remembered  hav- 
ing heard  say  that  she  was  always  kind  and  affable  to  her 
servants. 

"Drive  on,  you  fool!  Here,"  and  Mr.  Brithwood  threw 
some  coin  among  the  mob,  "fetch  the  constable — some  of 
you;  take  the  woman  to  the  watch-house!" 

And  the  carriage  rolled  on,  leaving  her  there,  crouched 
on  the  curbstone,  gazing  after  it  with  something  between  a 
laugh  and  a  moan. 

Nobody  touched  her.  Perhaps  some  had  heard  of  her; 
a  few  might  even  have  seen  her — driving  through  Norton 
Bury  in  her  pristine  state,  as  the  young  'squire's  handsome 
wife — the  charming  Lady  Caroline. 

I  was  so  absorbed  in  the  sickening  sight  that  I  did  not 
perceive  how  John  and  Ursula,  standing  behind  me,  had 
seen  it  likewise — evidently  seen  and  understood  it  all. 

"What  is  to  be  done?"  she  whispered  to  him. 

"What  ought  we  to  do?" 

Here  Maud  came  running  out  to  see  what  was  amiss  in 
the  street. 

"Go  in,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax,  sharply.  "Stay  till 
I  fetch  you." 

Lady  Oldtower  also  advanced  to  the  door;  but  catching 
some  notion  of  what  the  disturbance  was,  shocked  and  scan- 
dalized, retired  into  the  shop  again. 

John  looked  earnestly  at  his  wife,  but  for  once  she  did 
not  or  would  not  understand  his  meaning;  she  drew  back 
uneasily. 

"What  must  be  done — I  mean,  what  do  you  want  me  to 
do?" 

"What  only  a  woman -can  do — a  woman  like  you  in  your 
position." 

"Yes,  if  it  were  only  myself.  But  think  of  the  house- 
28 


434  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

hold — think  of  Maud.     People  will  talk  so.     It  is  hard  to 
know  how  to  act." 

"Nay;  how  did  One  act — how  would  He  act  now  if  He 
stood  in  the  street  this  day?  If  we  take  care  of  aught  of 
His,  will  He  not  take  care  of  us  and  of  our  children?" 

Mrs.  Halifax  paused,  thought  a  moment,  hesitated— 
yielded. 

"John,  you  are  right;  you  are  always  right.  I  will  do  any- 
thing you  please." 

And  then  I  saw,  through  the  astonished  crowd,  in  face 
of  scores  of  window-gazers,  all  of  whom  knew  them,  and  a 
great  number  of  whom  they  also  knew,  Mr.  Halifax  and  his 
wife  walk  up  to  where  the  miserable  woman  lay. 

John  touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder — she  screamed 
and  cowered  down. 

"Are  you  the  constable?  He  said  he  would  send  the  con- 
stable." 

"Hush — do  not  be  afraid.    Cousin — Cousin  Caroline." 

God  knows  how  long  it  was  since  any  woman  had  spoken 
to  her  in  that  tone.  It  seemed  to  startle  back  her  shattered 
wits.  She  rose  to  her  feet,  smiling  airily. 

"Madame,  you  are  very  kind.  I  believe  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  somewhere.  Your  name  is 

"Ursula  Halifax.  Do  you  remember?"  speaking  gently, 
as  she  would  have  done  to  a  child. 

Lady  Caroline  bowed — a  ghastly  mockery  of  her  former 
sprightly  grace.  "Not  exactly;  but  I  dare  say  I  shall  presently 
— an  revoir,  madame!" 

She  was  going  away,  kissing  her  hand — that  yellow, 
wrinkled  old  woman's  hand — but  John  stopped  her. 

"My  wife  wants  to  speak  to  you,  Lady  Caroline.  She  wishes 
you  to  come  home  with  us." 

"Plait-il? — oh  yes;  I  understand.  I  shall  be  happy- 
most  happy." 

John  offered  her  his  arm  with  an  air  of  grave  deference; 
Mrs.  Halifax  supported  her  on  the  other  side.  Without  more 
ado,  they  put  her  in  the  carriage  and  drove  home,  leaving 
Maud  in  my  charge,  and  leaving  astonished  Norton  Bury  to 
think  and  say — exactly  what  it  pleased. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  435 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

For  nearly  three  years  Lady  Caroline  lived  in  our  house — 
if  that  miserable  existence  of  hers  could  be  called  living — 
bed-ridden,  fallen  into  second  childhood: 

"Pleased  with  a  rattle,  tickled  with  a  straw;" 

oblivious  to  both  past  and  present,  recognizing  none  of  us, 
and  taking  no  notice  of  anybody,  except  now  and  then  Ed- 
win's little  daughter,  baby  Louise. 

We  knew  that  all  our  neighbors  talked  us  over,  making  far 
more  than  a  nine  days'  wonder  of  the  "very  extraordinary 
conduct"  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax.  That  even  good  Lady 
Oldtower  hesitated  a  little  before  she  suffered  her  tribe  of 
fair  daughters  to  visit  under  the  same  roof  where  lay,  quite 
out  of  the  way,  that  poor  wreck  of  womanhood,  which  would 
hardly  have  tainted  any  woman  now.  But  in  process  of  time 
the  gossip  ceased  of  itself;  and  when,  one  summer  day,  a 
small  decent  funeral  moved  out  of  our  garden  gate  to  En- 
derley  church-yard,  all  the  comment  was: 

"Oh!  is  she  dead?  What  a  relief  it  must  be!  How  very 
kind  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Halifax!" 

Yes,  she  was  dead,  and  had  "made  no  sign,"  either  of  re- 
pentance, grief  or  gratitude.  Unless  one  could  consider  as 
such  a  moment's  lightening  before  death,  which  Maud  de- 
clared she  saw  in  her — Maud,  who  had  tended  her  with  a 
devotedness  which  neither  father  nor  mother  forbade;  be- 
lieving that  a  woman  cannot  too  soon  learn  womanhood's 
best  "mission" — usefulness,  tenderness  and  charity.  Miss 
Halifax  was  certain  that  a  few  minutes  before  the  last  minute, 
she  saw  a  gleam  of  sense  in  the  filmy  eyes,  and  stooping  down, 
had  caught  some  feeble  murmur  about  "William — poor  Will- 
iam!" 

She  did  not  tell  me  this;  she  spoke  of  it  to  no  one  but  her 
mother,  and  to  her  briefly.  So  the  wretched  life,  once  beauti- 
ful and  loveful,  was  now  ended,  or  perhaps  borne  into  some 
new  sphere  to  begin  again  its  struggle  after  the  highest 
beauty,  the  only  perfect  love.  What  are  we  that  we  should 


436  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

place  limits  to  the  infinite  mercy  of  the  Lord  and  Giver  of 
Life,  unto  whom  all  life  returns! 

We  buried  her  and  left  her; — poor  Lady  Caroline! 

No  one  interfered  with  us,  and  we  appealed  to  no  one.  In 
truth,  there  was  no  one  unto  whom  we  could  appeal.  Lord 
Luxmore,  immediately  after  his  father's  funeral,  had  disap- 
peared, whither,  no  one  knew  except  his  solicitor;  who  treated 
with  and  entirely  satisfied  the  host  of  creditors,  and  into 
whose  hands  the  sole  debtor,  John  Halifax,  paid  his  yearly 
rent.  Therewith,  he  wrote  several  times  to  Lord  Luxmore; 
but  the  letters  were  simply  acknowledged  through  the  lawyer: 
never  answered.  Whether  in  any  of  them  John  alluded  to 
Lady  Caroline,  I  do  not  know;  but  I  rather  think  not,  as  it 
would  have  served  no  purpose  and  only  inflicted  pain.  No 
doubt,  her  brother  had  long  since  believed  her  dead,  as  we 
and  the  world  had  done. 

In  that  same  world,  one  man,  even  a  nobleman,  is  of  little 
account.  Lord  Ravenel  sank  in  its  wide  waste  of  waters,  and 
they  closed  over  him.  Whether  he  were  drowned  or  saved, 
was  of  small  moment  to  any  one.  He  was  soon  forgotten, 
everywhere  except  at  Beechwood;  arid  sometimes  it  seemed  as 
if  he  were  even  forgotten  there;  save  that  in  our  family  we 
found  it  hard  to  learn  this  easy,  convenient  habit — to  forget. 

Hard,  though  seven  years  had  passed  since  we  saw  Guy's 
merry  face,  to  avoid  missing  it  keenly  still.  The  mother, 
as  her  years  crept  on,  oftentimes  wearied  for  him  with  a 
yearning  that  could  not  be  told.  The  father,  as  Edwin  be- 
came engrossed  in  his  own  affairs,  and  Walter's  undecided 
temperament  kept  him  a  boy  long  after  boyhood,  often 
seemed  to  look  round  vaguely  for  an  eldest  son's  young 
strength  to  lean  upon:  often  said  anxiously,  "I  wish  Guy 
were  at  home." 

Yet  still  there  was  no  hint  of  his  coming;  "better  he  never 
came  at  all  than  come  against  his  will,  or  come  to  meet  the 
least  pain,  the  shadow  of  disgrace.  And  he  was  contented 
and  prosperous  in  the  Western  world,  leading  an  active  and 
useful  life,  earning  an  honorable  name.  He  had  taken  a 
partner,  he  told  us;  there  was  real  friendship  between  them, 
and  they  were  doing  well;  perhaps  might  make,  in  a  few 
years,  one  of  those  rapid  fortunes  which  clever  men  of  busi- 
ness do  make  in  America,  and  did  especially  at  that  time. 

He  was  so  eager  and  earnest  upon  other  and  higher  cares 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  43t 

than  mere  business;  entered  warmly  into  his  father's  sym- 
pathy about  many  political  measures  now  occupying  men's 
minds.  A  great  number  of  comparative  facts  concerning  the 
factory  children  in  England  and  America;  a  mass  of  evidence 
used  by  Mr.  Fowell  Buxton  in  his  arguments  for  the  aboli- 
tion of  slavery,  and  many  other  things,  originated  in  the  im- 
pulsive activity,  now  settled  into  mature  manly  energy,  of 
Mr.  Guy  Halifax,  of  Boston,  U.  S.— "our  Guy."  ' 

"The  lad  is  making  a  stir  in  the  world,"  said  his  father 
one  day,  when  we  had  read  his  last  letter.  "I  shall  not  won- 
der if,  when  he  comes  home,  a  deputation  from  his  native 
Norton  Bury  were  to  appear,  requesting  him  to  accept  the 
honor  of  representing  them  in  Parliament.  He  would  suit 
them — at  least,  as  regards  the  canvassing  and  the  ladies — a 
great  deal  better  than  his  old  father — eh,  love?" 

Mrs.  Halifax  smiled,  rather  unwillingly,  for  her  husband 
referred  to  a  subject  which  had  cost  her  some  pain  at  the 
time.  After  the  Keform  Bill  passed,  many  of  our  neigh- 
bors, who  had  long  desired  that  one  of  John's  high  char- 
acter, practical  knowledge,  and  influence  in  the  town,  should 
be  its  M.  P.,  and  were  aware  that  his  sole  objection  to  entering 
the  House  was  the  said  question  of  Reform,  urged  him  very 
earnestly  to  stand  for  Norton  Bury. 

To  everybody's  surprise,  and  none  more  than  our  own,  he 
refused. 

Publicly  he  assigned  no  reason  for  this,  except  his  con- 
viction that  he  could  not  discharge  as  he  ought,  and  as  he 
would  once  have  done,  duties  which  he  held  so  sacred  and 
indispensable.  His  letter,  brief  and  simple,  thanking  his 
"good  neighbors,"  and  wishing  them  "a  younger  and  worth- 
ier" member,  might  be  found  in  some  old  file  of  the  Norton 
Bury  Herald  still.  Even  the  Norton  Bury  Mercury,  in  re- 
printing it,  commented  on  its  touching  honesty  and  brevity, 
and — concluding  his  political  career  was  ended  with  it — con- 
descended to  bestow  on  Mr.  Halifax  the  usual  obituary  line: 

"We  could  have  better  spared  a  better  man." 

When  his  family,  and  even  his  wife,  reasoned  with  him, 
knowing  that  to  enter  Parliament  had  long  been  his  thought, 
nay,  his  desire,  and  perhaps  herself  taking  a  natural  pride 
in  the  idea  of  seeing  M.  P. — M.  P.  of  a  new  and  unbribed 


438  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

House  of  Commons — after  his  well-beloved  name — to  us  and 
to  her  he  gave  no  clearer  motive  for  his  refusal  than  to  the 
electors  of  Norton  Bury. 

"But  you  are  not  old,  John,"  I  argued  with  him  one  day; 
"you  possess  to  the  full  the  mens  sana  in  corpcre  sano.  No 
man  can  be  more  fitted  than  yourself  to  serve  his  country,  as 
you  used  to  say  it  might  be  served,  and  you  yourself  might 
serve  it,  after  Reform  was  gained." 

He  smiled,  and  jocularly  thanked  me  for  my  good  opinion. 

"Nay,  such  service  is  almost  your  duty;  you  yourself  once 
thought  so  too.  Why  have  you  changed  your  mind?" 

"I  have  not  changed  my  mind,  but  circumstances  have 
changed  my  actions.  _As  for  duty — duty  begins  at  home. 
Believe  me,  I  have  thought  well  over  the  subject.  Brother, 
we  will  not  refer  to  it  again." 

I  saw  that  something  in  the  matter  pained  him,  and 
obeyed  his  wish.  Even  when,  a  few  days  after,  perhaps  as 
some  compensation  for  the  mother's  disappointment,  he  gave 
this  hint  of  Guy's  taking  his  place  and  entering  Parliament 
in  his  room. 

For  any  one — nay,  his  own  son — to  take  John's  place,  to 
stand  in  John's  room,  was  not  a  pleasant  thought,  even  in 
jest;  we  let  it  pass  by  unanswered,  and  John  himself  did 
not  recur  to  it. 

Thus  time  went  on,  placidly  enough;  the  father  and  mother 
changed  into  grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  little  Maud 
into  Auntie  Maud.  She  bore  her  new  honors  and  fulfilled  her 
new  duties  with  great  delight  and  success.  She  had  altered 
much  of  late  years:  at  twenty  was  as  old  as  many  a  woman 
of  thirty — in  all  the  advantages  of  age.  She  was  sensible, 
active,  resolute,  and  wise;  sometimes  thoughtful,  or  troubled 
with  fits  of  what  in  any  less  wholesome  temperament  would 
have  been  melancholy;  but  as  it  was,  her  humors  only  be- 
trayed themselves  in  some  slight  restlessness  or  irritability, 
easily  soothed  by  a  few  tender  words,  or  a  rush  out  to  Ed- 
win's, and  a  peaceful  coming  back  to  that  happy  home,  whose 
principal  happiness  she  knew  that  she,  the  only  daughter, 
made. 

She  more  than  once  had  unexceptionable  chances  of  quit- 
ting it;  for  Miss  Halifax  possessed  plenty  of  attractions,  both 
outwardly  and  inwardly,  to  say  nothing  of  her  not  inconsid- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  439 

erable  fortune.  But  she  refused  all  offers,  and  to  the  best 
of  our  knowledge  was  a  free-hearted  damsel  still. 

Her  father  and  mother  seemed  rather  glad  of  this  than 
otherwise.  They  Avould  not  have  denied  her  any  happiness 
she  wished  for;  still,  it  was  evidently  a  relief  to  them  that 
she  was  slow  in  choosing  it;  slow  in  quitting  their  arms  of 
love  to  risk  a  love  untried.  Sometimes,  such  is  the  weak- 
ness of  parental  humanity,  I  verily  believe  they  looked  for- 
ward with  complacency  to  the  possibility  of  her  remaining 
always  Miss  Halifax.  I  remember  one  day,  when  Lady  Old- 
tower  was  suggesting — half  jest,  half  earnest,  "better  any 
marriage  than  no  marriage  at  all;"  Maud's  father  replied,  very 
seriously: 

"Better  no  marriage  than  any  marriage  that  is  less  than 
the  best." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  smiling,  "that  somewhere  in  the  world 
every  man  has  his  right  wife,  every  woman  her  right  hus- 
band. If  my  Maud's  comes,  he  shall  have  her.  If  not,  I 
shall  be  well  content  to  see  her  a  happy  old  maid." 

Thus,  after  many  storms,  came  this  lull  in  our  lives;  a 
season  of  busy  yet  monotonous  calm.  I  have  heard  say  that 
peace  itself,  to  be  perfect,  ought  to  be  monotonous.  We 
had  enough  of  it  to  satisfy  our  daily  need;  we  looked  forward 
to  more  of  it  in  time  to  come,  when  Guy  should  be  at  home, 
when  we  should  see  safely  secured  the  futures  of  all  the  chil- 
dren, and  for  ourselves  a  green  old  age 


"Journeying   in   long   serenity   away." 

A  time  of  heavenly  calm — which,  as  I  look  back  upon  it, 
grows  heavenlier  still!  Soft  summer  days  and  autumn  after- 
noons, spent  under  the  beech-wood,  or  on  the  Flat.  Quiet 
winter  evenings,  all  to  ourselves;  Maud  and  her  mother  work- 
ing, Walter  drawing.  The  father  sitting  with  his  back  to 
the  lamp,  its  light  making  a  radiance  over  his  brow  and 
white  bald  crown,  and  as  it  thrilled  through  the  curls  behind 
restoring  somewhat  of  the  youthful  color  to  his  fading  hair. 
Nay,  the  old  youthful  ring  of  his  voice  I  caught  at  times, 
when  he  found  something  funny  in  his  book  and  read  it 
out  aloud  to  us;  or  laying  it  down,  sat  talking,  as  he  liked 
to  talk,  about  things  speculative,  philosophical,  or  poetical; 


440  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

things  which  he  had  necessarily  let  slip  in  the  hurry  and 
press  of  his  business  life,  in  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day; 
but  which  now,  as  the  cool  shadows  of  evening  were  drawing 
on,  assumed  a  beauty  and  a  nearness,  and  were  again  caught 
up  by  him — precious  as  the  dreams  of  his  youth. 

Happy,  happy  time — sunshiny  summer,  peaceful  winter — 
we  marked  neither  as  they  passed;  but  now  we  hold  both — 
in  a  sacredness  inexpressible — a  foretaste  of  that  Land  where 
there  is  neither  summer  nor  winter,  neither  days  nor  years. 

The  first  break  in  our  repose  came  early  in  the  new  year. 
There  had  been  no  Christmas  letter  from  Guy,  and  he  never 
once  in  all  his  wanderings  had  missed  writing  home  at  Christ- 
mas-time. When  the  usual  monthly  mail  came  in,  and  no 
word  from  him — a  second  month,  and  yet  nothing,  we  began 
to  wonder  about  his  omission  less  openly — to  cease  scolding 
him  for  his  carelessness.  Though  over  and  over  again  we 
still  eagerly  brought  up  instances  of  the  latter— "Guy  is  such 
a  thoughtless  boy  about  his  correspondence." 

Gradually,  as  his  mother's  cheek  grew  paler,  and  his  father 
more  anxious-eyed,  more  compulsorily  cheerful,  we  gave  up 
discussing  publicly  the  many  excellent  reasons  why  no  letters 
should  come  from  Guy.  We  had  written  as  usual,  by  every 
mail.  By  the  last — by  the  March  mail — I  saw  that  in  ad- 
dition to  the  usual  packet  for  Mr.  Guy  Halifax — his  father, 
taking  another  precautionary  measure,  had  written  in  busi- 
ness form  to  "Messrs.  Guy  Halifax  &  Co."  Guy  had  always, 
"just  like  his  carelessness/'  omitted  to  give  the  name  of  his 
partner;  but  addressed  thus,  in  case  of  any  sudden  journey 
or  illness  of  Guy's,  the  partner,  whoever  he  was,  would  be  sure 
to  write. 

In  May — nay,  it  was  on  May-day,  I  remember,  for  we  were 
down  in  the  mill-meadows  with  Louise  and  her  little  ones, 
going  a-maying — there  came  in  the  American  mail. 

It  brought  a  large  packet — all  our  letters  of  this  year  sent 
back  again,  directed,  in  a  strange  hand,  to  "John  Halifax, 
Esquire,  Beech  wood,"  with  the  annotation,  "By  Mr.  Guy 
Halifax's  desire." 

Among  the  rest — though  the  sickening  sight  of  them  had 
blinded  even  his  mother  at  first,  so  that  her  eye  did  not  catch 
it,  was  one  that  explained — most  satisfactorily  explained,  we 
said — the  reason  they  were  thus  returned.  It  was  a  few  lines 
from  Guy  himself.,  stating  that  unexpected  good-fortune  had 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  441 

made  him  determine  to  come  home  at  once.  If  circumstances 
thwarted  his  intention,  he  would  write  without  fail;  otherwise 
he  should  most  likely  sail  by  an  American  merchantman — the 
Stars  and  Stripes. 

"Then  he  is  coming  home!    On  his  way  home!" 

And  the  mother,  as  with  one  shaking  hand  she  held  fast  the 
letter,  with  the  other  steadied  herself  by  the  rail  of  John's 
desk — I  guessed  now  why  he  had  ordered  all  the  letters  to 
be  brought  first  to  his  counting-house.  "When  do  you  think 
we  shall  see  Guy?" 

At  thought  of  the  happy  sight,  her  bravery  broke  down. 
She  wept  heartily  and  long. 

John  sat  still,  leaning  over  the  front  of  his  desk.  By  his 
sigh,  deep  and  glad,  one  could  tell  what  a  load  was  lifted  off 
the  father's  heart  at  prospect  of  his  son's  .return. 

"The  liners  are  only  a  month  in  sailing;  but  this  is  a  bark, 
most  likely,  which  takes  longer  time.  Love,  show  me  the 
date  of  the  boy's  letter." 

She  looked  for  it  herself.    It  was  in  January! 

The  sudden  fall  from  certainty  to  uncertainty — the  wild 
clutch  at  that  which  hardly  seemed  a  real  joy  until  seen 
fading  down  to  a  mere  hope,  a  chance,  a  possibility — who 
has  not  known  all  this? 

I  remember  how  we  all  stood — mute  and  panic-struck,  in 
the  dark  little  counting-house.  I  remember  seeing  Louise, 
with  her  children,  in  the  door-way,  trying  to  hush  their  laugh- 
ing, and  whispering  to  them  something  about  "poor  Uncle 
Guy." 

John  was  the  first  to  grasp  the  unspoken  dread,  and  show 
that  it  was  less  than  at  first  appeared. 

"We  ought  to  have  had  this  letter  two  months  ago;  this 
shows  how  often  delays  occur — we  ought  not  to  be  surprised 
or  uneasy  at  anything.  Guy  does  not  say  when  the  ship  was 
to  sail — she  may  be  on  her  voyage  still.  If  he  had  but  given 
the  name  of  her  owners.  But  I  can  write  to  Lloyd's  and  find 
out  everything.  Cheer  up,  mother.  Please  God,  you  shall 
have  that  wandering,  heedless  boy  of  yours  back  before  long." 

He  replaced  the  letters  in  their  enclosure — held  a  gen- 
eral consultation,  into  which  he  threw  a  passing  gleam  of 
faint  gayety,  as  to  whether,  being  ours,  we  had  a  right  to 
burn  them,  or  whether,  having  passed  through  the  post- 
office,  they  were  not  the  writer's  but  the  owner's  property, 


442  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

and  Guy  could  claim  them,  with  all  their  useless  news,  on 
his  arrival  in  England.  This  was  finally  decided,  and  the 
mother,  with  a  faint  smile,  declared  that  nobody  should 
touch  them;  she  would  put  them  under  lock  and  key  "till 
Guy  came  home/' 

Then  she  took  her  husband's  arm,  and  the  rest  of  us  fol- 
lowed them  as  they  walked  slowly  up  the  hill  to  Beechwood. 

But  after  that  day  Mrs.  Halifax's  strength  decayed.  Not 
suddenly,  scarcely  perceptibly;  not  with  any  outward  com- 
plaint, except  what  she  jested  over  as  "the  natural  weakness 
of  old  age;"  but  there  was  an  evident  change.  Week  by 
week  her  long  walks  shortened;  she  gave  up  her  village  school 
to  me;  and  though  she  went  about  the  house  still  and  insisted 
on  keeping  the  keys,  gradually,  "just  for  the  sake  of  practice," 
the  domestic  surveillance  fell  into  the  hands  of  Maud. 

An  answer  arrived  from  Lloyd's;  the  Stars  and  Stripes  was 
an  American  vessel,  probably  of  small  tonnage  and  import- 
ance, for  the  underwriters  knew  nothing  of  it. 

More  delay,  more  suspense.  The  summer  days  came,  but 
not  Guy.  No  news  of  him — not  a  word — not  a,  line. 

His  father  wrote  to  America — pursuing  inquiries  in  all 
directions.  At  last  some  tangible  clew  was  caught.  The 
Stars  and  Stripes  had  sailed,  had  been  spoken  with  about 
the  Windward  Isles,  and  never  heard  of  afterward. 

Still,  there  was  hope — John  told  the  hope  first,  before 
he  ventured  to  speak  of  the  missing  ship,  and  even  then 
had  to  break  the  news  gently,  for  the  mother  had  grown  frail 
and  weak,  and  could  not  bear  things  as  she  used  to  do.  She 
clung,  as  if  they  had  been  words  of  life  or  death,  to  the  ship- 
owner's postscript — "that  they  had  no  recollection  of  the 
name  of  Halifax;  there  might  have  been  such  a  gentleman 
on  board — they  could  not  say.  But  it  was  not  probable,  for 
She  Stars  and  Stripes  was  a  trading  vessel,  and  had  not  good 
accommodations  for  passengers." 

Then  came  week  after  week — I  knew  not  how  they  went 
by — one  never  does,  afterward.  At  the  time,  they  were  fright- 
fully vivid,  hour  by  hour;  we  rose  each  morning,  sure  that 
some  hope  would  come  in  the  course  of  the  day;  we  went 
to  bed  at  night  heavily,  as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  hope 
in  the  world.  Gradually,  and  I  think  that  was  the  worst  con- 
sciousness of  all — our  life  of  suspense  became  perfectly  natu- 
ral; and  everything  in  and  about  the  house  went  on  as  usual, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  443 

just  as  though  we  knew  quite  well — what  the  Almighty 
Father  alone  knew! — where  our  poor  lad  was,  and  what  had 
become  of  him.  Or  rather,  as  if  we  had  settled  in  the  cer- 
tainty which  perhaps  the  end  of  our  own  lives  alone  would 
bring  us,  that  he  had  slipped  out  of  life  altogether,  and  there 
was  no  such  being  as  Guy  Halifax  under  this  pitiless  sun. 

The  mother's  heart  was  breaking.  She  made  no  moan, 
but  we  saw  it  in  her  face.  One  morning — it  was  the  morn- 
ing after  John's  birthday,  which  we  had  made  a  feint  of 
keeping,  with  Grace  Oldtower,  the  two  little  grandchildren, 
Edwin  and  Louise — she  was  absent  at  breakfast  and  at  din- 
ner; she  had  not  slept  well,  and  was  too  tired  to  rise.  Many 
days  following  it  happened  the  same;  with  the  same  faint  ex- 
cuse, or  with  no  excuse  at  all.  How  we  missed  her  about  the 
house! — ay,  changed  as  she  had  been.  How  her  husband 
wandered  about,  ghost-like,  from  room  to  room! — could  not 
rest  anywhere,  or  do  anything.  Finally,  he  left  our  company 
altogether,  and  during  the  hours  that  he  was  at  home  rarely 
quitted  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  the  quiet  bed-chamber, 
where,  every  time  his  foot  entered  it,  the  poor  pale  face  looked 
up  and  smiled. 

Ay,  smiled;  for  I  noticed,  as  many  another  may  have 
done  in  similar  cases,  that  when  her  physical  health  definitely 
gave  way,  her  mental  health  returned.  The  heavy  burden  was 
lighter;  she  grew  more  cheerful,  more  patient;  seemed  to 
submit  herself  to  the  Almighty  will,  whatever  it  might  be; 
as  she  lay  on  her  sofa  in  the  study,  where  one  or  two  evenings 
John  carried  her  down,  almost  as  easily  as  he  used  to  carry 
little  Muriel,  his  wife  would  rest  content  with  her  hand  in 
his,  listening  to  his  reading,  or  quietly  looking  at  him,  as 
though  her  lost  son's  face,  which  a  few  week's  since  she  said 
haunted  her  continually,  were  now  forgotten  in  his  father's. 
Perhaps  she  thought  the  one  she  should  soon  see — while  the 
other 

"Phineas,"  she  whispered  one  day,  when  I  was  putting 
a  shawl  over  her  feet,  or  doing  some  other  trifle  that  she 
thanked  me  for — "Phineas,  if  anything  happens  to  me,  you 
will  comfort  John?" 

Then  first  I  began  seriously  to  contemplate  a  possibility, 
hitherto  as  impossible  and  undreamed  of  as  that  the  moon 
should  drop  out  of  the  height  of  heaven,  what  would  the 
house  be  without  the  mother? 


444  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

Her  children  never  suspected  this,  I  saw;  but  they  were 
young — for  her  husband 

I  could  not  understand  John.  He,  so  quick-sighted;  he 
who,  meeting  any  sorrow,  looked  steadily  up  at  the  Hand 
that  smote  him,  knowing  neither  the  coward's  dread,  nor  the 
unbeliever's  disguise  of  pain — surely  he  must  see  what  was 
impending.  Yet  he  was  as  calm  as  if  he  saw  it  not.  Calm, 
as  no  man  could  be,  contemplating  the  supreme  parting  be- 
tween two  who  nearly  all  their  lives  had  been  not  two,  but 
one  flesh. 

Yet  I  had  once  heard  him  say  that  a  great  love,  and  only 
that,  makes  parting  easy.  Could  it  be  that  this  love  of  his, 
which  had  clasped  his  wife  so  firmly,  faithfully  and  long, 
fearlessly  clasped  her  still,  by  its  own  perfectness  assured  of 
its  immortality? 

But  all  the  while  his  human  love  clung  about  her,  show- 
ing itself  in  a  thousand  forms  of  watchful  tenderness.  And 
hers  clung  to  him,  closely,  dependently;  she  let  herself  be 
taken  care  of,  ruled  and  guided,  as  if  with  him  she  found 
helplessness  restful  and  submission  sweet.  Many  a  little  out- 
ward fondness,  that  when  people  have  been  long  married  nat- 
urally drops  into  disuse,  was  revived  again;  he  would  bring 
her  flowers  out  of  the  garden,  or  new  books  from  the  town; 
and  many  a  time,  when  no  one  noticed,  I  have  seen  him 
stoop  and  press  his  lips  upon  the  faded  hand,  where  the  wed- 
ding-ring hung  so  loosely — his  own  for  so  many  years,  his 
own  till  the  dust  claimed  it,  that  well-beloved  hand! 

Ay,  he  was  right.  Loss,  affliction,  death  itself,  are  power- 
less in  the  presence  of  such  a  love  as  theirs. 

It  was  already  the  middle  of  July.  From  January  to  July 
— six  months!  Our  neighbors  without — and  there  were  many 
who  felt  for  us — never  asked  now,  "Is  there  any  news  of 
Mr.  Guy?"  Even  pretty  Grace  Oldtower — pretty  still,  but 
youthful  no  longer — only  lifted  her  eyes  inquiringly  as  she 
crossed  our  door-way,  and  dropped  them  again  with  a  hope- 
less sigh.  She  had  loved  us  all,  faithfully  and  well,  for  a 
great  many  years. 

One  night,  when  Miss  Oldtower  had  just  gone  home  after 
staying  with  us  the  whole  day,  Maud  and  I  sat  in  the  study 
by  ourselves,  where  we  generally  sat  now.  The  father  spent 
all  his  evenings  upstairs.  We  could  hear  his  step  overhead  as 
he  crossed  the  room  or  opened  the  window,  then  drew  his 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  445 

chair  back  to  its  constant  place  by  his  wife's  bedside.  Some- 
times there  was  a  faint  murmur  of  reading  or  talking;  then 
long  silence. 

Maud  and  I  sat  in  silence  too.  She  had  her  own  thoughts 
—I  mine.  Perhaps  they  were  often  one  and  the  same:  per- 
haps— for  youth  is  youth  after  all — they  may  have  diverged 
widely.  Hers  were  deep,  absorbed  thoughts,  at  any  rate,  trav- 
eling fast — fast  as  her  needle  traveled;  for  she  had  imper- 
ceptibly fallen  into  her  mother's  ways  and  her  mother's  work. 

We  had  the  lamp  lit,  but  the  windows  were  wide  open, 
and  through  the  sultry  summer  night  we  could  hear  the 
trickle  of  the  stream  and  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  in  the  beech- 
wood.  We  sat  very  still,  waiting  for  nothing,  expecting  noth- 
ing; in  the  dull  patience  which  always  fell  upon  us  about 
this  hour — the  hour  before  bedtime,  when  nothing  more  was 
to  be  looked  for  but  how  best  to  meet  another  dreary  day. 

"Maud,  was  that  the  click  of  the  front  gate  swinging?" 

"No;  I  told  Walter  to  lock  it  before  he  went  to  bed.  Last 
night  it  disturbed  my  mother.*' 

Again  silence.  So  deep  that  the  maid's  opening  the  door 
made  us  both  start. 

"Miss  Halifax — there's  a  gentleman  wanting  to  see  Miss 
Halifax." 

Maud  sprang  up  in  her  chair,  breathless. 

"Any  one  you  know,  is  it?" 

"No,  miss." 

"Show  the  gentleman  in." 

He  stood  already  in  the  door-way — tall,  brown,  bearded. 
Maud  just  glanced  at  him,  then  rose,  bending  stiffly,  after  the 
manner  of  Miss  Halifax,  of  Beechwood. 

"Will  you  be  seated?    My  father— 

"Maud,  don't  you  know  me?  Where's  my  mother?  I 
am  Guy." 


CHAPTEK  XXXIX. 

Guy  and  his  mother  were  together.  She  lay  on  a  sofa 
in  her  dressing-room,  he  sat  on  a  stool  beside  her,  so  that 
her  arm  could  rest_on  his  neck,  and  she  could  now  and  then 
turn  his  face  toward  her  and  look  at  it — oh,  what  a  look! 

She  had  had  him  with  her  for  two  whole  days — two  days 


446  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

to  be  set  against  eight  years!  Yet  the  eight  years  seemed 
already  to  have  collapsed  into  a  span  of  time,  and  the  two 
days  to  have  risen  up  a  great  mountain  of  happiness,  mak- 
ing a  barrier  complete  against  the  wofnl  past,  as  happiness 
can  do — thanks  to  the  All-merciful  for  His  mercies.  Most 
especially  for  that  mercy — true  as  His  truth  to  the  experience 
of  all  pure  hearts — that  one  bright,  brief  season  of  joy  can 
outweigh,  in  reality  and  even  in  remembrance,  whole  years 
of  apparently  interminable  pain. 

Two  days  only  since  the  night  _Guy  came  home,  and  yet 
it  seemed  months  ago!  Already  we  had  grown  familiar  to 
the  tall  bearded  figure;  the  strange  step  and  voice  about  the 
house;  all  except  Maud,  who  was  rather  shy  and  reserved 
still.  We  had  ceased  the  endeavor  to  reconcile  this  our  Guy 
— this  tall,  grave  man  of  nearly  thirty,  looking  thirty-five  and 
more — with  Guy,  the  boy  that  left  us,  the  boy  that  in  all  our 
lives  we  never  should  find  again.  Nevertheless,  we  took  him, 
just  as  he  was,  to  our  hearts,  rejoicing  in  him  one  and  all  with 
inexpressible  joy. 

He  was  much  altered,  certainly.  It  was  natural,  nay,  right, 
that  he  should  be.  He  had  suffered  much;  a  great  deal  more 
than  he  ever  told  us — at  least,  not  till  long  after;  had  gone 
through  poverty,  labor,  sickness,  shipwreck.  He  had  written 
home  by  the  Stars  and  Stripes — sailed  a  fortnight  later  by 
another  vessel — been  cast  away — picked  up  by  an  outward- 
bound  ship,  and  finally  landed  in  England,  he  and  his  part- 
ner, as  penniless  as  they  left  it. 

"Was  your  partner  an  Englishman,  then?"  said  Maud,  who 
sat  at  the  foot  of  the  sofa,  listening.  "You  have  not  told 
us  anything  about  him  yet." 

Guy  half  smiled.  "I  will,  by-and-by.  It's  a  long  story. 
Just  now,  I  don't  want  to  think  of  anybody  or  anything  ex- 
cept my  mother." 

He  turned,  as  he  did  twenty  times  a  day,  to  press  his  rough 
cheek  upon  her  hand  and  look  up  into  her  thin  face,  his  eyes 
overflowing  with  love. 

"You  must  get  well  now,  mother.    Promise!" 

Her  smile  promised — and  even  began  the  fulfillment  of  the 
same. 

"I  think  she  looks  stronger  already;  does  she,  Maud?  You 
know  her  looks  better  than  Ij  I  don't  ever  remember  her  be- 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  447 

ing  ill  in  old  times.  Oh,  mother,  I  will  never  leave  you  again 
— never!" 

"No,  my  boy." 

"No,  Guy,  no."  John  came  in,  and  stood  watching  them 
both  contentedly.  "No,  my  son,  you  must  never  leave  your 
mother." 

"I  will  not  leave  either  of  you,  father,"  said  Guy,  with 
a  reverent  affection  that  must  have  gladdened  the  mother's 
heart  to  the  very  core.  Resigning  his  place  by  her,  Guy  took 
Maud's,  facing  them;  and  father  and  son  began  to  talk  of 
various  matters  concerning  their  home  and  business  arrange- 
ments; taking  counsel  together,  as  father  and  son  ought  to 
do.  These  eight  years  of  separation  seemed  to  have  brought 
them  nearer  together;  the  difference  between  them — in  age, 
far  less  than  between  most  fathers  and  sons,  had  narrowed 
into  a  meeting-point.  Never  in  all  his  life  had  Guy  been 
so  deferent,  so  loving  to  his  father.  And  with  a  peculiar 
trust,  and  tenderness,  John's  heart  turned  to  his  eldest  son, 
the  heir  of  his  name,  his  successor  at  Enderley  Mills.  For, 
in  order  that  Guy  might  at  once  take  his  natural  place  and 
feel  no  longer  a  waif  and  stray  upon  the  world,  already  a  plan 
had  been  started,  that  the  firm  of  Halifax  &  Sons  should  be- 
come Halifax  Brothers.  Perhaps,  ere  very  long — only  the 
mother  said  privately,  rather  anxiously  too,  that  she  did  not 
wish  this  part  of  the  scheme  to  be  mentioned  to  Guy  just 
now — perhaps  ere  long  it  would  be  "Guy  Halifax,  Esquire,  of 
Beechwood;"  and  "the  old  people"  at  happy  little  Longfield. 

As  yet  Guy  had  seen  nobody  but  ourselves,  and  nobody 
had  seen  Guy.  Though  his  mother  gave  various  good  reasons 
why  he  should  not  make  his  public  appearance  as  a  "ship- 
wrecked mariner" — costume  and  all,  yet  it  was  easy  to  per- 
ceive that  she  looked  forward,  not  without  apprehension,  to 
some  meetings  which  must  necessarily  soon  occur,  but  to 
which  Guy  made  not  the  smallest  allusion.  He  had  asked, 
cursorily  and  generally,  after  "all  my  brothers  and  sisters," 
and  been  answered  in  the  same  tone;  but  neither  he  nor  we 
had  as  yet  mentioned  the  names  of  Edwin  or  Louise. 

They  knew  he  was  come  home;  but  how  and  where  the 
first  momentous  meeting  should  take  place,  we  left  entirely 
to  chance,  or,  more  rightly  speaking,  to  Providence. 

So  it  happened  thus.  Guy  was  sitting  quietly  on  the  sofa 
at  his  mother's  feet,  and  his  father  and  he  were  planning  to- 


448  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

gether  in  what  way  could  best  be  celebrated,  by  our  school- 
children, tenants,  and  work-people,  an  event  which  we  took 
a  great  interest  in,  though  not  greater  than  in  this  year  was 
taken  by  all  classes  throughout  the  kingdom — the  day  fixed 
for  the  abolition  of  negro  slavery  in  our  colonies — the  first  of 
August,  1834.  He  sat  in  an  attitude  that  reminded  me  of 
his  boyish  lounging  ways;  the  picture  of  content;  though  a 
stream  of  sunshine  pouring  in  upon  his  head  through  the 
closed  Venetian  blind  showed  many  a  deep  line  of  care  on  his 
forehead,  and  more  than  one  silver  thread  among  his  brown 
hair. 

In  a  pause — during  which  no  one  exactly  liked  to  ask  what 
we  were  all  thinking  about — there  came  a  little  tap  at  the 
door,  and  a  little  voice  outside. 

"Please,  me  want  to  come  in." 

Maud  jumped  up,  to  refuse  admission,  but  Mr.  Halifax  for- 
bade her,  and  himself  went  and  opened  the  door.  A  little 
child  stood  there — a  little  girl  of  three  years  old. 

Apparently  guessing  who  she  was,  Guy  rose  up  hastily,  and 
sat  down  in  his  place  again. 

"Come  in,  little  maid/'  said  the  father;  "come  in  and  tell 
us  what  you  want." 

"Me  want  to  see  Grannie  and  Uncle  Guy." 

Guy  started,  but  still  he  kept  his  seat.  The  mother  took 
her  grandchild  in  her  feeble  arms,  and  kissed  her,  saying, 
softly: 

"There — that  is  Uncle  Guy.    Go  and  speak  to  him." 

And  then,  touching  his  knees,  Guy  felt  the  tiny,  fearless 
hand.  He  turned  round,  and  looked  at  the  little  thing,  re- 
luctantly, inquisitively.  Still  he  did  not  speak  to  or  touch 
her. 

"Are  you  Uncle  Guy?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  don't  you  kiss  me?  Everybody  kisses  me,"  said  every- 
body's pet;  neither  frightened  nor  shy;  never  dreaming  of  a 
repulse. 

Nor  did  she  find  it.  Her  little  fingers  were  suffered  to 
cling  round  the  tightly  closed  hand. 

"What  is  .your  name,  my  dear?" 

"Louise — mamma's  little  Louise." 

Guy  put  back  the  curls,  and  gazed  long  and  wistfully  into 
the  childish  face,  where  the  inherited  beauty  was  repeated 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  449 

line  for  line.  But  softened,  spiritualized,  as,  years  after  its 
burial,  some  ghost  of  a  man's  old  sorrows  may  rise  up  and 
meet  him,  the  very  spirit  of  peace  shining  out  of  its  celestial 
eyes. 

"Little  Louise,  you  are  very  like " 

He  stopped,  and,  bending  down,  kissed  her.  In  that  kiss 
vanished  forever  the  last  shadow  of  his  boyhood's  love.  Not 
that  he  forgot  it.  God  forbid  that  any  good  man  should 
either  ever  forget  or  be  ashamed  of  his  first-love.  But  it  and 
all  its  pain  fled  far  away,  back  into  the  sacred  eternities  of 
dream-land. 

When,  looking  up  at  last,  he  saw  a  large,  fair  matronly 
lady  sitting  by  his  mother's  sofa,  Guy  neither  started  nor 
turned  pale.  It  was  another  and  not  his  lost  Louise.  He 
rose  and  offered  her  his  hand. 

"You  see,  your  little  daughter  has  made  friends  with  me 
already.  She  is  very  like  you;  only  she  has  Edwin's  hair. 
Where  is  my  brother  Edwin?" 

"Here,  old  fellow.    Welcome  home." 

The  two  brothers  met  warmly,  nay,  affectionately.  Edwin 
was  not  given  to  demonstration;  but  I  saw  how  his  features 
twitched,  and  how  he  busied  himself  over  the  knots  in  his 
little  girl's  pinafore  for  a  minute  or  more.  When  he  spoke 
again  it  was  as  if  nothing  had  happened  and  Guy  had  never 
been  away. 

For  the  mother,  she  lay  with  her  arms  folded,  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  mutely,  or  closing  her  eyes  with  a  faint  stir- 
ring of  the  lips,  like  prayer.  It  seemed  as  if  she  dared  only 
thus  to  meet  her  exceeding  joy. 

Soon  Edwin  and  Louise  left  us  for  an  hour  or  two,  and 
Guy  went  on  with  the  history  of  his  life  in  America  and  his 
partner,  who  had  come  home  with  him,  and,  like  himself, 
had  lost  his  all. 

"Harder  for  him  than  for  me;  he  is  older  than  I  am.  He 
knew  nothing  whatever  of  business  when  he  offered  himself 
as  my  clerk;  since  then  he  has  worked  like  a  slave.  In  a 
fever  I  had  he  nursed  me;  he  has  been  to  me  these  three  years 
the  best,  truest  friend.  He  is  the  noblest  fellow.  Father,  if 
you  only  knew " 

"Well,  my  son,  let  me  know  him.  Invite  the  gentleman 
to  Beech  wood;  or  shall  I  write  and  ask  him?  Maud,  fetch 
me  your  mother's  desk.  Now  then,  Guy — you  are  a  very  for- 

, 


450  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

getful  fellow  still;  you  have  never  yet  told  us  your  friend's 
name." 

Guy  looked  steadily  at  his  father,  in  his  own  straightfor- 
ward way;  hesitated — then  apparently  made  up  his  mind. 

"I  did  not  tell  you,  because  he  wished  me  not;  not  till  you 
understood  him  as  well  as  I  do.  You  knew  him  yourself 
once — but  he  has  wisely  dropped  his  title.  Since  he  came 
over  to  me  in  America,  he  has  been  only  Mr.  William  Rave- 
nel." 

This  discovery — natural  enough  when  one  began  to  think 
over  it,  but  incredible  at  first — astounded  us  all.  For  Maud — 
well  was  it  that  the  little  Louise  seated  in  her  lap  hid  and 
controlled  in  some  measure  the  violent  agitation  of  poor 
Auntie  Maud. 

Ay — Maud  loved  him.  Perhaps  she  had  guessed  the  secret 
cause  of  his  departure,  and  love  creates  love  oftentimes.  Then 
his  brave  renunciation  of  rank,  fortune,  even  of  herself— 
women  glory  in  a  moral  hero — one  who  has  strength  to  lose 
even  love,  and  bear  its  loss,  for  the  sake  of  duty  or  of  honor. 
His  absence,  too,  might  have  done  much — absence  which 
smothers  into  decay  a  rootless  fancy,  but  often  nourishes  the 
least  seed  of  a  true  affection  into  full-flowering  love.  Ay — 
Maud  loved  him.  How,  or  why,  or  when,  at  first  no  one  could 
tell — perhaps  not  even  herself;  but  so  it  was,  and  her  parents 
saw  it. 

Both  were  deeply  moved — her  brother  likewise. 

"Father,"  he  whispered,  "have  I  done  wrong?  I  did  not 
know — how  could  I  guess?" 

"No,  no — my  son.  It  is, very  strange — all  things  just  now 
seem  so  strange.  Maud,  my  child" — and  John  roused  himself 
out  of  a  long  silence  into  which  he  was  falling — "go,  and  take 
Louise  to  her  mother." 

The  girl  rose,  eager  to  get  away.  As  she  crossed  the  room 
— the  little  creature  clinging  round  her  neck,  and  she  clasp- 
ing it  close,  in  the  sweet  motherliness  of  character  which  had 
come  to  her  so  early — I  thought — I  hoped 

"Maud!"  said  John,  catching  her  hand  as  she  passed  by 
him — "Maud  is  not  afraid  of  her  father?" 

"No" — in  troubled  uncertainty — then  with  a  passionate 
decision,  as  if  ashamed  of  herself — "No!" 

She  leaned  over  his  chair-back  and  kissed  him — then  went 
out. 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  451 

"Now,  Guy." 

Guy  told,  in  his  own  frank  way,  all  the  history  of  himself 
and  William  Ravenel;  how  the  latter  had  come  to  America, 
determined  to  throw  his  lot  for  good  or  ill,  to  sink  or  swim, 
with  Maud's  brother — chiefly,  as  Guy  had  slowly  discovered, 
because  he  was  Maud's  brother.  At  last — in  the  open  boat 
on  the  Atlantic  with  death  the  great  Revealer  of  all  things 
staring  them  in  the  face — the  whole  secret  came  out.  It 
made  them  better  than  friends — brothers. 

This  was  Guy's  story,  told  with  a  certain  spice  of  deter- 
mination too,  as  if — let  his  father's  will  be  what  it  might, 
his  own,  which  had  now  also  settled  into  the  strong  "family" 
will,  was  resolute  on  his  friend's  behalf.  Yet  when  he  saw 
how  grave,  nay,  sad,  the  father  sat,  he  became  humble  again, 
and  ended  his  tale  even  as  he  had  begun,  with  the  entreaty 
— "Father,  if  you  only  knew " 

"My  knowing  and  my  judging  seem  to  have  been  of  little 
value,  my  son.  Be  it  so.  There  is  One  wiser  than  I — One 
in  whose  hands  are  the  issues  of  all  things." 

The  sort  of  contrition  with  which  he  spoke — thus  retract- 
ing, as  it  costs  most  men  so  much  to  retract,  a  decision  given, 
however  justly  at  the  time,  but  which  fate  has  afterward  pro- 
nounced unjust,  affected  his  son  deeply. 

"Father,  your  decision  was  right;  William  says  it  was.  He 
says  also,  that  it  could  not  have  been  otherwise;  that  whatever 
he  has  become  since,  he  owes  it  all  to  you,  and  to  what  passed 
that  day.  Though  he  loves  her  still,  will  never  love  any  one 
else,  yet  he  declares  his  loss  of  her  has  proved  his  salvation." 

"He  is  right,"  said  Mrs.  Halifax.  "Love  is  worth  nothing 
that  will  not  stand  trial — a  fiery  trial,  if  needs  be.  And  as  I 
have  heard  John  say  many  and  many  a  time — as  he  said  that 
very  night — in  this  world  there  is  not,  ought  not  to  be,  any 
such  words  as  'too  late/  ': 

John  made  no  answer.  He  sat,  his  chin  propped  on  his 
right  hand,  the  other  pressed  against  his  bosom — his  favorite 
attitude.  Once  or  twice,  with  a  deep-drawn,  painful  breath, 
he  sighed. 

Guy's  eagerness  could  not  rest.  "Father,  I  told  him  I 
would  either  write  to  or  see  him  to-day." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"At  Norton  Bury.  Nothing  would  induce  him  to  come 
here,  unless  certain  that  you  desired  it," 


452  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"I  do  desire  it." 

Guy  started  up  with  great  joy.    "Shall  I  write  then?" 

"I  will  write  myself." 

But  John's  hand  shook  so  much  that,  instead  of  his  cus- 
tomary free,  bold  writing,  he  left  only  blots  upon  the  page. 
He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  said,  faintly: 

"I  am  getting  an  old  man,  I  see.  Guy,  it  was  high  time 
you  came  home." 

Mrs.  Halifax  thought  he  was  tired,  and  made  a  place  for 
his  head  on  her  pillow,  where  he  rested  some  minutes,  "just 
to  please  her,"  he  said.  Then  he  rose,  and  declared  he  would 
himself  drive  over  to  Norton  Bury  for  our  old  friend. 

"Nay,  let  me  write,  father.  To-morrow  will  do  just  as 
well." 

The  father  shook  his  head.    "No — it  must  be  to-day." 

Bidding  good-by  to  his  wife — he  never  by  any  chance  quit- 
ted her  for  an  hour  without  a  special  tender  leave-taking — 
John  went  away.  * 

Guy  was,  he  avouched,  "as  happy  as  a  king."  His  old  live- 
liness returned;  he  declared  that  in  this  matter,  which  had 
long  weighed  heavily  on  his  mind,  he  had  acted  like  a  great 
diplomatist,  or  like  the  gods  themselves,  whom  some  unex- 
acting,  humble  youth  calls  upon  to 

"Annihilate  both  time  and  space, 
And  make  two  lovers  happy." 

"And  Fm  sure  I  shall  be  happy,  too,  in  seeing  them.  They 
shall  be  married  immediately.  And  we'll  take  William  into 
partnership — that  was  a  whim  of  his,  mother — we  call  one 
another  'Guy'  and  ' William/  just  like  brothers.  Heigh-ho! 
I'm  very  glad.  Are  not  you?" 

The  mother  smiled. 

"You  will  soon  have  nobody  left  but  me.  No  matter.  I  shall 
have  you  all  to  myself,  and  be  at  once  a  spoiled  child  and 
an  uncommonly  merry  old  bachelor." 

Again  the  mother  smiled,  without  reply.  She,  too,  doubt- 
less thought  herself  a  great  diplomatist. 

William  Bavenel — he  was  henceforward  never  anything  to 
us  but  William — came  home  with  Mr.  Halifax.  First  the 
mother  saw  him;  then  I  heard  the  father  go  to  the  maiden 
bower  where  Maud  had  shut  herself  up  all  day — poor  child! 
— and  fetch  his  daughter  down.  Lastly,  I  watched  the  two 
—Mr.  Ravenel  and  Miss  Halifax— walk  together  down  the 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  453 

garden  and  into  the  beech-wood,  where  the  leaves  were  whis- 
pering, and  the  stock-doves  cooing;  and  where,  I  suppose, 
they  told  and  listened  to  the  old  tale — old  as  Adam — ^yet- 
forever  beautiful  and  new. 

That  day  was  a  wonderful  day.  That  night  we  gathered, 
as  we  never  thought  we  should  gather  again  in  this  world, 
round  the  family  table — Guy,  Edwin,  Walter,  Maud,  Louise, 
and  William  Ravenel — all  changed,  yet  not  one  lost.  A  true 
love-feast  it  was;  a  renewed  celebration  of  the  family  bond, 
which  had  lasted  through  so  much  sorrow,  now  knitted  up 
once  more,  never  to  be  broken. 

When  we  came  quietly  to  examine  one  another,  and  fall  into 
one  another's  old  ways,  there  was  less  than  one  might  have 
expected  even  of  outward  change.  The  table  appeared  the 
same;  all  took  instinctively  their  old  places,  except  that  the 
mother  lay  on  her  sofa,  and  Maud  presided  at  the  urn. 

It  did  one's  heart  good  to  look  at  Maud,  as  she  busied  her- 
self about,  in  the  capacity  of  vice-reine  of  the  household; 
perhaps,  with  a  natural  feeling,  liking  to  show  some  one 
present  how  mature  and  sedate  she  was — not  so  very  young 
after  all.  You  could  see  she  felt  deeply  how  much  he  loved 
her — how  her  love  was  to  him  like  the  restoring  of  his 
youth.  The  responsibility,  sweet  as  it  was,  made  her  wo- 
manly, made  her  grave.  She  would  be  to  him  at  once  wife 
and  child,  plaything  and  comforter,  sustainer  and  sustained. 
Ay,  love  levels  all  things.  They  were  not  ill-matched,  in 
spite  of  those  twenty  years. 

And  so  I  left  them,  and  went  and  sat  with  John  and  Ur- 
sula— we,  the  generation  passing  away,  or  ready  to  pass,  in 
Heaven's  good  time,  to  make  room  for  these.  We  talked  but 
little;  our  hearts  were  too  full.  Early,  before  anybody 
thought  of  moving,  John  carried  his  wife  upstairs  again,  say- 
ing that,  well  as  she  looked,  she  must  be  compelled  to  econ- 
omize both  her  good  looks  and  her  happiness. 

When  he  came  down  again,  he  stood  talking  for  some  time 
with  Mr.  Eavenel.  While  he  talked,  I  thought  he  looked 
wearied — pallid  even  to  exhaustion;  a  minute  or  two  after- 
ward he  silently  left  the  room. 

I  followed  him,  and  found  him  leaning  against  the  chim- 
ney-piece in  his  study. 

"Who's  that?"  He  spoke  feebly;  he  looked  ghastly!  I 
called  him  by  his  name. 


454  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

"Come  in.     Fetch  no  one.     Shut  the  door." 

The  words  were  hoarse  and  abrupt,  and  I  obeyed. 

"Phineas,"  he  said,  again  holding  out  a  hand,  as  if  he 
thought  he  had  grieved  me;  "don't  mind.  I  shall  be  better 
presently.  I  know  quite  well  what  it  is — oh,  my  God — my 
God!" 

Sharp,  horrible  pain — such  as  human  nature  shrinks  from 
— such  as  makes  poor  mortal  flesh  cry  out  in  its  agony  to  its 
Maker,  as  if,  for  the  time  being,  life  itself  were  worthless  at 
such  a  price.  I  know  not  what  it  must  have  been;  I  know  not 
what  he  must  have  endured. 

He  held  me  fast,  half  unconscious  as  he  was,  lest  I  should 
summon  help;  and  when  a  step  was  heard  in  the  passage,  as 
once  before — the  day  Edwin  was  married — how,  on  a  sudden, 
I  remembered  all! — he  tottered  forward  and  locked,  double- 
locked  the  door. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  worst  suffering  apparently  abated, 
and  he  sat  down  again  in  his  chair.  I  got  some  water;  he 
drank,  and  let  me  bathe  his  face  with  it — his  face,  gray  and 
death-like — John's  face. 

But  I  am  telling  the  bare  facts — nothing  more. 

A  few  heavy  sighs,  gasped  as  it  were  for  life,  and  he  was 
himself  again. 

"Thank  God,  it  is  over  now!  Phineas,  you  mast  try  and 
forget  all  you  have  seen.  I  wish  you  had  not  come  to  the 
door." 

He  said  this  not  in  any  tone  that  could  wound  me,  but  ten- 
derly, as  if  he  were  very  sorry  for  me. 

"What  is  it?" 

"There  is  no  need  for  alarm — no  more  than  that  day,  you 
recollect? — in  this  room.  I  had  an  attack  once  before  then; 
a  few  times  since.  It  is  horrible  pain  while  it  lasts,  you  see; 
I  can  hardly  bear  it.  But  it  goes  away  again,  as  you  also  see. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  tell  my  Avife,  or  anybody;  in  fact,  I  had 
rather  not.  You  understand?" 

He  spoke  this  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  as  if  he  thought  the 
explanation  would  satisfy  me,  and  prevent  my  asking  further. 
He  was  mistaken. 

"John,  what  is  it?" 

"What  is  it?  Why,  something  like  what  I  had  then;  but 
it  comes  rarely,  and  I  am  well  again  directly.  I  had  much 
rather  not  talk  about  it.  Pray,  forget  it." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  455 

But  I- could  not;  nor,  I  thought,  could  he.  He  took  up  a 
book  and  sat  still;  though  oftentimes  I  caught  his  eyes  fixed 
on  my  face  with  a  peculiar  earnestness,  as  if  he  would  fast 
test  my  strength — fain  find  out  how  much  I  loved  him,  and 
loving,  how  much  I  could  hear. 

"You  are  not  reading,  John;  you  are  thinking — what 
about?" 

He  paused  a  little,  as  if  undetermined  whether  or  not  to  tell 
me,  then  said:  "About  your  father.  Do  you  remember 
him?" 

I  looked  surprised  at  the  question. 

"I  mean  do  you  remember  how  he  died?" 

Somehow — though,  God  knows,  not  at  that  dear  and  sacred 
remembrance — I  shuddered.  "Yes;  but  why  should  we  talk 
of  it  now?" 

"Why  not?  I  have  often  thought  what  a  happy  death  it 
was — painless,  instantaneous,  without  any  wasting  sickness 
beforehand — his  sudden  passing  from  life  present  to  life 
eternal.  Phineas,  your  father's  was  the  happiest  death  I  ever 
knew." 

"It  may  be — I  am  not  sure — John,"  for  again  something  in 
his  look  and  manner  struck  me — "why  do  you  say  this  to  me?" 

"I  scarcely  know.     Yes,  I  do  know." 

"Tell  me  then." 

Pie  looked  at  me  across  the  table — steadily,  eye  to  eye,  as 
if  he  would  fain  impart  to  my  spirit  the  calmness  that  was  in 
his  own.  "I  believe,  Phineas,  that  when  I  die  my  death  will 
be  not  unlike  your  father's." 

Something  came  wildly  to  my  lips  about  "impossibility," 
the  utter  impossibility  of  any  man's  thus  settling  the  manner 
of  his  death,  or  the  time. 

"I  know  that.  I  know  that  I  may  live  ten  or  twenty  years, 
and  die  of  another  disease  after  all." 

"Disease!" 

"Nay — it  is  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  You  see  I  am  not 
afraid.  I  have  guessed  it  for  many  years.  I  have  known  it 
for  a  certainty  ever  since  I  was  in  Paris." 

"Were  you  ill  in  Paris?    You  never  said  so." 

"No — because — Phineas,  do  you  think  you  could  bear  the 
truth?  You  know  it  makes  no  real  difference.  I  shall  not 
die  an  hour  sooner  for  being  aware  of  it." 

"Aware  of  what?    Say  quickly." 


456  JOHN   HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

"Dr.  K told  me — I  was  determined  to  be  told — that 

I  had  the  disease  I  suspected;  beyond  medical  power  to  cure. 
It  is  not  immediately  fatal;  he  said  I  might  live  many  years, 
even  to  an  old  age;  and  I  might  die  suddenly,  at  any  moment, 
just  as  your  father  died." 

He  said  this  gently  and  quietly — more  quietly  than  I  am 
writing  the  words  down  now;  and  I  listened — I  listened. 

"Phineas!" 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  his  warm  hand  on  my  shoulder — the 
hand  which  had  led  me  like  a  brother's  all  my  life. 

"Phineas,  we  have  known  one  another  these  forty  years. 
Is  our  love,  our  faith  so  small  that  either  of  us,  for  himself  or 
his  brother,  need  be  afraid  of  death -" 

"Phineas!"  and_the  second  time  he  spoke  there  was  some 
faint  reproach  in  the  tone,  "no  one  knows  this  but  you.  I  see 
I  was  right  to  hesitate;  I  almost  wish  I  had  not  told  you  at 
all." 

Then  I  rose. 

At  my  urgent  request  he  explained  to  me,  fully  and  clearly, 
the  whole  truth.  It  was,  as  most  truths  are,  less  terrible 
when  wholly  known.  It  had  involved  little  suffering  as  yet, 
the  paroxysms  being  few  and  rare.  They  had  always  occurred 
when  he  was  alone,  or  when,  feeling  them  coming  on,  he  could 
go  away  and  bear  them  in  solitude. 

"I  have  always  been  able  to  do  so  until  to-night.  She  has 
not  the  least  idea — my  wife,  I  mean." 

His  voice  failed. 

"It  has  been  terrible  to  me  at  times,  the  thought  of  my  wife. 
Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  told  her.  Often  I  resolved  I  would, 
and  then  changed  my  mind.  Latterly,  since  she  has  been  ill, 
I  have  believed,  almost  hoped,  that  she  would  not  need  to  be 
told  at  all." 

"Would  you  rather,  then,  that  she " 

John  calmly  took  up  the  word  I  shrank  from  uttering. 
"Yes,  I  would  rather  of  the  two  that  she  went  away  first. 
She  would  suffer  less,  and  it  would  be  such  a  short  parting." 

He  spoke  as  one  would  speak  of  a  new  abode,  an  impend- 
ing journey.  To  him  the  great  change,  the  last  terror  of 
humanity,  was  a  thought — solemn  indeed,  but  long  familiar 
and  altogether  without  fear.  And,  as  we  sat  there,  something 
of  his  spirit  passed  into  mine;  I  felt  how  narrow  is  the  span 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  457 

between  life  mortal  and  the  life  immortal — how,  in  truthj 
both  are  one  with  God. 

"Ay/'  he  said,  "that  is  exactly  what  I  mean.  To  me  there 
is  always  something  impious  in  the  'preparing  for  death'  that 
people  talk  about;  as  if  we  were  not  continually,  whether  in 
the  flesh  or  out  of  it,  living  in  the  Father's  presence;  as  if, 
come  when  He  will,  the  Master  should  not  find  all  of  us 
watching.  Do  you  remember  saying  so  to  me  one  day?" 

Ah,  that  day! 

"Does  it  pain  you,  my  talking  thus?  Because  if  so,  we  will 
cease." 

"No— go  on." 

"That  is  right.  I  thought,  this  attack  having  been  some- 
what worse  than  my  last,  some  one  ought  to  be  told.  It  has 
been  a  comfort  to  me  to  tell  you — a  great  comfort,  Phineas. 
Always  remember  that." 

I  have  remembered  it. 

"Now,  one  thing  more,  and  my  mind  is  at  ease.  You  see, 
though  I  may  have  years  of  life — I  hope  I  shall — many  busy 
years — I  am  never  sure  of  a  day,  and  I  have  to  take  many  pre- 
cautions. At  home  I  shall  be  quite  safe  now."  He  smiled 
again  with  evident  relief.  "And  I  rarely  go  anywhere  with- 
out having  one  of  my  boys  with  me.  Still,  for  fear — look 
here." 

He  showed  me  his  pocket-book;  on  a  card  bearing  his  name 
and  address,  was  written  in  his  own  legible  hand,  "Home 
and  tell  my  wife  carefully." 

I  returned  the  book.  As  I  did  so,  there  dropped  out  a  little 
note — all  yellow  and  faded — his  wife's  only  love-letter,  signed, 
"Yours  sincerely,  Ursula  March." 

John  picked  it  up,  looked  at  it,  and  put  it  back  in  its  place. 

"Poor  darling!  poor  darling!"  He  sighed,  and  was  silent 
for  a  while.  "I  am  very  glad  Guy  has  come  home!  very  glad 
that  my  little  Maud  is  so  happily  settled — Hark!  how  those 
children  are  laughing!" 

For  the  moment  a  natural  shade  of  regret  crossed  the  fa- 
ther's face,  the  father  to  whom  all  the  delights  of  home  had 
been  so  dear.  But  it  soon  vanished. 

"How  merry  they  are! — how  strangely  things  have  come 
about  for  us  and  ours!  As  Ursula  was  saying  to-night,  at 
this  moment  we  have  not  a  single  care." 

I  grasped  at  that,  for  Dr.  K had  declared  that  if  John 


458  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

had  a  quiet  life — a  life  without  any  anxieties — he  might, 
humanly  speaking,  attain  a  good  old  age. 

"Ay,  your  father  did.  Who  knows?  we  may  both  be  old 
men  yet,  Phineas." 

And  as  he  rose  he  looked  strong  in  body  and  mind,  full  of 
health  and  cheer — scarcely  even  on  the  verge  of  that  old  age 
of  which  he  spoke.  And  I  was  older  than  he. 

"Now  will  you  come  with  me  to  say  good-night  to  the  chil- 
dren?" 

At  first  I  thought  I  could  not — then,  I  could.  After  the 
rest  had  merrily  dispersed,  John  and  I  stood  for  a  long  time 
in  the  empty  parlor,  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  as  he  used  to 
stand  when  we  were  boys,  talking. 

What  we  said  I  shall  not  write,  but  I  remember  it,  every 
word.  And  he — I  know  he  remembers  it  still. 

Then  we  clasped  hands. 

"Good-night,  Phineas." 

"Good-night,  John." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Friday,  the  first  of  August,  1834. 

Many  may  remember  that  day;  what  a  soft,  gray,  summer 
morning  it  was,  and  how  it  broke  out  into  brightness;  how 
everywhere  bells  were  ringing,  club  fraternities  walking  witli 
bands  and  banners,  school-children  having  feasts  and  work- 
people holidays;  how,  in  town  and  country,  there  was  spread 
abroad  a  general  sense  of  benevolent  rejoicing — because  hon- 
est old  England  had  lifted  up  her  generous  voice,  nay,  had 
paid  down  cheerfully  her  twenty  millions,  and  in  all  her  col- 
onies the  negro  was  free. 

Many  may  still  find,  in  some  forgotten  drawer,  the  medal — 
bought  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  of  all  classes,  in 
copper,  silver,  or  gold — distributed  in  charity-schools,  and 
given  by  old  people  to  their  grandchildren.  I  saw  Mrs. 
Halifax  tying  one  with  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon  round  little 
Louise's  neck,  in  remembrance  of  this  day.  The  pretty 
medal,  with  the  slave  standing  upright,  stretching  out  to 
heaven  free  hands,  from  which  the  fetters  are  dropping — as  I 
overheard  John  say  to  his  wife,  he  could  fancy  the  freeman 
Paul  would  stand  in  the  Roman  prison,  when  he  answered  to 


JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  459 

those  that  loved  him,  "I  have  fought  the  good  fight.  I  have 
finished  my  course.  I  have  kept  the  faith." 

Now,  with  my  quickened  ears,  I  often  heard  John  talking 
quietly  to  his  wife  on  this  wise. 

He  remained  hy  her  side  the  whole  forenoon,  wheeling  her 
about  in  her  garden-chair;  taking  her  to  see  her  school-chil- 
dren in  their  glory  on  our  lawn,  to  hear  the  shouts  rising  up 
from  the  people  at  the  mill-yard  below.  For  all  Enderley, 
following  the  master's  example,  took  an  interest,  hearty  even 
among  hearty  hard-working  England,  in  the  emancipation  of 
the  slaves. 

We  had  our  own  young  people  around  us,  and  the  day  was 
a  glorious  day,  they  declared  one  and  all. 

John  was  happy  too — infinitely  happy.  x\fter  dinner,  he 
carried  his  wife  to  her  chair  beside  the  weeping-ash,  where 
she  could  smell  the  late  hay  in  the  meadow,  and  hear  the 
ripple  of  the  stream  in  the  beech-wood — faint,  for  it  was  al- 
most dried  up  now,  but  pleasant  still.  Her  husband  sat  on 
the  grass,  making  her  laugh  with  his  quaint  sayings — admir- 
ing her  in  her  new  bonnet,  and  in  the  lovely  white  shawl — 
Guy's  shawl — which  Mr.  Guy  himself  had  really  no  time  for 
admiring.  He  had  gone  off  to  the  school  tea-drinking,  escort- 
ing his  sister  and  sister-in-law,  and  another  lady,  whose  eyes 
brightened  with  most  "sisterly"  joy  whenever  she  glanced  at 
her  old  playfellow.  Guy's  "sister"  she  nevertheless  was  not, 
nor  was  ever  likely  to  be — and  I  questioned  whether,  in  his 
secret  heart,  he  had  not  begun  already  to  feel  particularly 
thankful  for  that  circumstance. 

"Ah,  mother;"  cried  the  father,  smiling,  "you'll  see  how  it 
will  end;  all  of  our  young  birds  will  soon  be  flown — there  will 
be  nobody  but  you  and  me." 

"Never  mind,  John;"  and  stooping  over  him,  she  gave  him 
one  of  her  quiet,  soft  kisses,  precious  now  she  was  an  old  wo- 
man as  they  had  been  in  the  days  of  her  bloom.  "Never 
mind.  Once  there  were  only  our  two  selves — now  there  are 
only  our  two  selves  again.  We  shall  be  very  happy.  We  only 
need  one  another." 

"Only  one  another,  my  darling." 

This  last  word,  and  the  manner  of  his  saying  it,  I  can  hear 
if  I  listen  in  silence,  clear  as  if  yet  I  heard  its  sound.  This 
last  sight — of  them  sitting  under  the  ash-tree,  the  sun  mak- 
ing still  whiter  Ursula's  white  shawl,  brightening  the  mar- 


460  JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

riage-ring  on  her  bare  hand,  and  throwing,  instead  of  silver, 
some  of  their  boyish  gold-color  into  the  edges  of  John's  curls 
— this  picture  I  see  with  my  shut  eyes,  vivid  as  yesterday. 

I  sat  for  some  time  in  my  room,  then  John  came  to  fetch 
me  for  our  customary  walk  along  his  favorite  "terrace"  on 
the  Flat.  He  rarely  liked  to  miss  it;  he  said  the  day  hardly 
seemed  complete  or  perfect  unless  one  had  seen  the  sun  set. 
Thus,  almost  every  evening,  we  used  to  spend  an  hour  or  more 
pacing  up  and  down,  or  sitting  in  that  little  hollow  under  the 
bow  of  the  Flat,  where,  as  from  the  topmost  seat  of  a  natural 
amphitheater,  one  could  see  Rose  Cottage  and  the  old  well- 
head where  the  cattle  drank;  our  own  green  garden  gate,  the 
dark  mass  of  the  beech-wood,  and  far  away  beyond  that,  Nun- 
nely  Hill,  where  the  sun  went  down. 

There,  having  walked  somewhat  less  time  that  usual,  for 
the  evening  was  warm,  and  it  had  been  a  fatiguing  day,  John 
and  I  sat  down  together.  We  talked  a  little,  ramblingly; 
chiefly  of  Longfield;  how  I  was  to  have  my  old  room  again, 
and  how  a  new  nursery  was  to  be  planned  for  the  grandchil- 
dren. 

"We  can't  get  out  of  the  way  of  children,  I  see  clearly,"  he 
said,  laughing.  "We  shall  have  Longfield  just  as  full  as  ever 
it  was,  all  summer-time.  But  in  winter  we'll  be  quiet,  and 
sit  by  the  chimney-corner,  and  plunge  into  my  dusty  desert 
of  books — eh,  Phineas?  You  shall  help  me  to  make  notes 
for  those  lectures  I  have  intended  giving  at  Norton  Bury, 
these  ten  years  past.  And  we'll  rub  up  our  old  Latin,  and 
dip  into  modern  poetry — great  rubbish,  I  fear!  Nobody  like 
our  old  friend  Will  of  Avon,  or  even  your  namesake,  worthy 
Phineas  Fletcher." 

I  reminded  him  of  the  "Shepherd's  life  and  fate,"  which 
he  always  liked  so  much,  and  used  to  say  was  his  ideal  of 
peaceful  happiness. 

"Well,  and  I  think  so  still.  'Keep  true  to  the  dreams  of 
thy  youth/  saith  the  old  German;  I  have  not  been  false  to 
mine.  I  have  had  a  happy  life,  thank  God;  ay,  and  what  few 
men  can  say,  it  has  been  the  very  sort  of  happiness  I  myself 
would  have  chosen.  I  think  most  lives,  if,  while  faithfully  do- 
ing our  little  best  day  by  day,  we  were  content  to  leave  their 
thread  in  wiser  hands  than  ours,  would  thus  weave  themselves 
out;  until,  looked  back  upon  as  a  whole,  they  would  seem  as 
bright  a  web  as  mine." 


JOHN   HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN.  461 

He  sat,  talking  thns,  resting  his  chin  on  his  hands — his 
eyes,  calm  and  sweet,  looking  out  westward,  where  the  sun  was 
about  an  hour  from  the  horizon. 

"Do  you  remember  how  we  used  to  lie  on  the  grass  in  your 
father's  garden,  and  how  we  never  could  catch  the  sunset  ex- 
cept in  fragments,  between  the  Abbey  trees?  I  wonder  if 
they  keep  the  yew-hedge  clipped  as  round  as  ever." 

I  told  him  Edwin  had  said  to-day  that  some  strange  tenants 
were  going  to  make  an  inn  of  the  old  house,  and  turn  the 
lawn  into  a  bowling-green. 

"What  a  shame!  I  wish  I  could  prevent  it.  And  yet,  per- 
haps not,"  he  added,  after  a  silence.  "Ought  we  not  rather 
to  recognize  and  submit  to  the  universal  law  of  change?  How 
each  in  his  place  is  fulfilling  his  day,  and  passing  away,  just 
as  that  sun  is  passing.  Only  we  know  not  whither  he  passes; 
while  whither  we  go  we  know,  and  the  Way  we  know — the 
same  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever." 

Almost  before  he  had  done  speaking — (God  grant  that  in 
the  Kingdom  I  may  hear  that  voice,  not  a  tone  altered — I 
would  not  wish  it  altered  even  there) — a  whole  troop  of  our 
young  people  came  out  of  Mrs.  Tod's  cottage,  and  nodded  to 
us  from  below. 

There  was  Mrs.  Edwin,  standing  talking  to  the  good  old 
soul,  who  admired  her  baby-boy  very  much,  but  wouldn't  al- 
low that  there  could  be  any  children  like  Mrs.  Halifax's  chil- 
dren. 

There  was  Edwin,  deep  in  converse  with  his  brother  Guy, 
while  beside  them — prettier  and  younger-looking  than  ever — 
Grace  Oldtower  was  making  a  posy  for  little  Louise. 

Further  down  the  slope,  walking  slowly,  side  by  side,  evi- 
dently seeing  nobody  but  one  another,  were  another  couple. 

"I  think,  sometimes,  John,  that  those  two,  William  and 
Maud,  will  be  the  happiest  of  all  the  children." 

He  smiled,  looked  after  them  for  a  minute,  and  then  laid 
himself  quietly  down  on  his  back  along  the  slope,  his  eyes  still 
directed  toward  the  sunset.  When,  brightening  as  it  de- 
scended, the  sun  shone  level  upon  the  place  where  we  were 
sitting,  I  saw  John  pull  his  broad  straw  hat  over  his  face,  and 
compose  himself,  with  both  hands  clasped  upon  his  breast, 
in  the  attitude  of  sleep. 

I  knew  he  was  very  tired,  so  I  spoke  no  more,  but  threw 
my  cloak  over  him,  He  looked  up,  thanked  me  silently,  with 


462  JOHN    HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN. 

his  old  familiar  smile.  One  day — one  day  I  shall  know  him 
by  that  smile!  I  sat  for  half  an  hour  or  more  watching  the 
sun,  which  sank  steadily,  slowly,  round  and  red,  without  a 
single  cloud.  Beautiful,  as  I  had  never  before  seen  it;  so 
clear,  that  one  could  note  the  very  instant  its  disk  touched 
the  horizon's  gray. 

Maud  and  Mr.  Eavenel  were  coming  up  the  slope.  I  beck- 
oned them  to  come  softly,  not  to  disturb  the  father.  They 
and  I  sat  in  silence,  facing  the  west.  The  sun  journeyed 
down  to  his  setting  lower — lower;  there  was  a  crescent,  a  line, 
a  dim  sparkle  of  light;  then — he  was  gone.  And  still  we  sat 
— grave,  but  not  sad — looking  into  the  brightness  he  had  left 
behind;  believing,  yea,  knowing,  we  should  see  his  glorious 
face  again  to-morrow. 

"How  cold  it  has  grown/'  said  Maud.  "I  think  we  ought 
to  wake  my  father." 

She  went  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  upon  his  that  were 
folded  together  over  the  cloak — drew  back  startled — alarmed. 

"Father!" 

I  put  the  child  aside.  It  was  I  who  moved  the  hat  from 
John's  face — the  face,  for  John  himself  was  far,  far  away. 
Gone  from  us  unto  Him  whose  faithful  servant  he  was. 
While  he  was  sleeping  thus,  the  Master  had  called  him. 

His  two  sons  carried  him  down  the  slope.  They  laid  him 
in  the  upper  room  in  Mrs.  Tod's  cottage.  Then  I  went  home 
to  tell  his  wife. 

She  was  at  last  composed,  as  we  thought,  lying  on  her  bed, 
death-like  almost,  but  calm.  It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night.  I 
left  her  with  all  her  children  watching  round  her. 

I  went  out,  up  to  Eose  Cottage,  to  sit  an  hour  by  myself 
alone,  looking  at  him  whom  I  should  not  see  again  for,  as  he 
had  said,  "a  little  while." 

"A  little  while — a  little  while."  I  comforted  myself  with 
those  words.  I  fancied  I  could  almost  hear  John  saying 
them,  standing  near  me,  with  his  hand  on  my  shoulder — 
John  himself,  quite  distinct  from  that  which  lay  so  still  be- 
fore me;  beautiful  as  nothing  but  death  can  be,  younger 
much  than  he  had  looked  this  very  morning — younger  by 
twenty  years. 

Farewell,  John!  Farewell,  my  more  than  brother!  It  ia 
but  for  a  little  while, 


JOHN    HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN.  463 

As  I  sat,  thinking  how  peacefully  the  hands  lay,  clasped 
together  still,  how  sweet  was  the  expression  of  the  closed 
mouth,  and  what  a  strange  shadowy  likeness  the  whole  face 
bore  to  Muriel's  little  face,  which  I  had  seen  resting  in  the 
same  deep  rest  on  the  same  pillow;  some  one  touched  me.  It 
was  Mrs.  Halifax. 

How  she  came  I  do  not  know;  nor  how  she  had  managed 
to  steal  out  from  among  her  children;  nor  how  she,  who  had 
not  walked  for  weeks,  had  found  her  way  up  hither,  in  the 
dark,  all  alone;  nor  what  strength,  almost  more  than  mortal, 
helped  her  to  stand  there  as  she  did  stand,  upright  and  calm 
— gazing — gazing  as  I  had  done. 

"It  is  very  like  him;  don't  you  think  so,  Phineas?"  The 
voice  low  and  soft,  unbroken  by  any  sob.  "He  once  told  me, 
in  case  of  this,  he  would  rather  I  did  not  come  and  look  at 
him;  but  I  can,  you  see." 

I  gave  her  my  place,  and  she  sat  down  by  the  bed.  It 
might  have  been  ten  minutes  or  more  that  she  and  I  re- 
mained thus,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

"I  think  I  hear  some  one  at  the  door.  Brother,  will  you 
call  in  the  children?" 

Guy,  altogether  overcome,  knelt  down  beside  his  mother, 
and  besought  her  to  let  him  take  her  home. 

"Presently — presently,  my  son.  You  are  very  good  to  me; 
but — your  father.  Children,  come  in  and  look  at  your  fa- 
ther." 

They  all  gathered  round  her — weeping;  but  she  spoke  with- 
out a  single  tear. 

"I  was  a  girl,  younger  than  any  of  you,  when  first  I  met 
your  father.  Next  month  we  shall*  have  been  married  thirty- 
three  years.  Thirty-three  years." 

Her  eyes  grew  dreamy,  as  if  fancy  had  led  her  back  all  that 
space  of  time;  her  fingers  moved  to  and  fro,  mechanically, 
over  her  wedding-ring. 

"Children,  we  were  so  happy,  you  cannot  tell.  He  was 
so  good;  he  loved  me  so.  Better  than  that,  he  made  me 
good;  that  was  why  I  loved  him.  Oh,  what  his  love  was  to 
me  from  the  first!  strength,  hope,  peace;  comfort  and  help  in 
trouble,  sweetness  in  prosperity.  How  my  life  became  happy 
and  complete — how  I  grew  worthier  to  myself  because  he  had 
taken  me  for  his  own!  And  what  he  was — Children,  no  one 
but  me  ever  knew  all  his  goodness,  no  one  but  himself  ever 


464  JOHN  HALIFAX,   GENTLEMAN. 

knew  how  dearly  I  loved  your  father.  We  were  more  precious 
each  to  each  than  anything  on  earth — except  His  service, 
who  gave  us  to  one  another." 

Her  voice  dropped  all  but  inaudible;  but  she  roused  herself, 
and  made  it  once  more  clear  and  firm,  the  mother's  natural 
voice. 

"Guy,  Edwin,  all  of  you,  must  never  forget  your  father. 
You  must  do  as  he  wishes,  and  live  as  he  lived — in  all  ways. 
You  must  love  him,  and  love  one  another.  Children,  you 
will  never  do  anything  that  need  make  you  ashamed  to  meet 
your  father." 

As  they  hung  round  her,  she  kissed  them  all — her  three 
sons  and  her  daughter — one  by  one;  then,  her  mind  being 
perhaps  led  astray  by  the  room  we  were  in,  looked  feebly 
round  for  one  more  child — remembered — smiled 

"How  glad  her  father  will  be  to  have  her  again — his  own 
little  Muriel." 

"Mother!  mother,  darling!  come  home,"  whispered  Guy, 
almost  in  a  sob. 

His  mother  stooped  over  him,  gave  him  one  kiss  more — 
him  her  favorite  of  all  her  children — and  repeated  the  old 
phrase. 

"Presently,  presently!  "Now  go  away  all  of  you;  I  want  to 
be  left  for  a  little  while  alone  with  my  husband." 

As  we  went  out  I  saw  her  turn  toward  the  bed — "John, 
John!" — the  same  tone;  almost  the  same  words  with  which 
she  had  crept  up  to  him  years  before,  the  day  they  were  be- 
trothed. Just  a  low,  low  murmur,  like  a  tired  child  creep- 
ing to  fond  protecting  arms.  "John,  John!" 

We  closed  the  door.  We  all  sat  on  the  stairs  outside;  it 
might  have  been  for  minutes,  it  might  have  been  for  hours. 
Within  or  without — no  one  spoke — nothing  stirred. 

At  last  Guy  softly  went  in. 

She  was  still  in  the  same  place  by  the  bedside,  but  half 
lying  on  the  bed,  as  I  had  seen  her  turn  when  I  was  shutting 
the  door.  Her  arm  was  round  her  husband's  neck;  her  face, 
pressed  inward  to  the  pillow,  was  nestled  close  to  his  hair. 
They  might  have  been  asleep — both  of  them. 

One  of  her  children  called  her,  but  she  neither  answered 
nor  stirred. 

Guy  lifted  her  up  very  tenderly;  his  mother,  who  had  no 
stay  left  but  him — his  mother — a  widow 

No,  thank  God!  she  was  not  a  widow  now. 
THE  END. 


rinNAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

A"  '  000  137  810     8 


